The Fall

By Michael Allen Dymmoch

How far would you go to save your life and your world?

After a nasty divorce, single mother Joanne Lessing finally has her life together, and she’s made a name for herself as a photographer. Then, while on assignment, she witnesses a hit and run. Property damage only. No big deal, she thinks. So she does the right thing—calls the cops. Joanne is dismayed when FBI agents arrive with the local detective. They admit the hit and run driver was a mob killer fleeing the scene of his latest hit. Joanne is relieved to find she can’t really identify the hit man.

But when she sees the killer again while on another assignment, she takes his picture and finds her new life and her son’s future threatened. Caught between the Mob and the FBI, she’s on her own...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diversion Books
• Release date: Jan 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626815087

Michael Allen Dymmoch

Michael Dymmoch is the author of ten novels, including the John Thinnes and Jack Caleb mysteries. Michael ventured into romantic suspense with The Fall and M.I.A.. In preparation for a writing career, she took classes on law enforcement, "Gunshot and Stab Wounds", crime scene investigation, and screenwriting. She's attended autopsies and worked as a baby sitter, veterinary assistant, medical research tech, recycler, and professional driver. Michael has served as President and Secretary of the Midwest Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and newsletter editor for the Chicagoland Chapter of Sisters in Crime. Michael currently lives and writes in Chicago.

Book preview

One

Bloodied by a crimson wash of sunrise, a peaceful army of occupation foraged beneath the naked oaks in Crestwood Park, skirting the abandoned tennis courts and playground. Canada geese. Identical in crisp gray and white uniforms.

Watching them, Joanne Lessing felt joy rise within her like the rush of effervescence when you pop a champagne cork. She sighted on the black-booted cadre and aimed with the reflexes of a sniper. Locating one in her camera’s shallow plane of focus, she adjusted the lens until the creature stood in sharp contrast to the fuzzy carpet of grass around it. It paused. Joanne breathed deeply and pressed the trigger. There was a whir, a click. The bird was caught in a net of photons.

November 1st. She had been sent to record the aftermath of Halloween; the geese were serendipity.

The light was serendipity, too—right for November, though the air was too warm and the lawn too green—summer reluctant to loose its hold. Grass that should have been mossy with frost was diamonded with dew, so that the grazing geese seemed to be harvesting jewels. And the breaking sun painted nearby maples radiant yellow and glowing red. The month could have been March but for the warmth, the November light, and the absence of the gray muck snow leaves behind. Everything was still November clean.

Joanne pulled away, looking for a better angle. She noted the time, the f-stop and the shutter speed in the small notebook she carried in her pocket. Before she rewound the roll, she checked the lens for dust, ignoring her reflection—oval face framed by dark hair. She capped the lens and took the film from the camera, numbering the cassette before she dropped it in her camera case. She’d selected another roll and was reopening the camera, a Nikon, when the soft whine of tires signaled an approaching car.

The geese froze at attention.

Instinctively raising the camera, Joanne turned to face the road that separated the park from the neighborhood. A gray car, an expensive import, rounded the corner west of where she stood. Too fast.

The geese scattered and took off.

As his car came even with Joanne, the driver started. Judging by his expression, she might have been pointing a gun instead of a camera. The car veered for less time than it took Joanne to notice, then straightened. Too late! It caromed off a Volkswagen parked on the far side of the street. The VW jerked and screeched a protest. The offending car veered to Joanne’s side of the road, scraped the curb, then straightened.

Joanne focused the camera instinctively, then remembered it was out of film. She swung the useless weapon into her camera case and, in the same movement, grabbed her old Canon F-1, removing the lens cover as she raised it to shoot.

Worry about exposure later!

The driver floored it. The car shot forward. Joanne aimed, focused, shot, advanced the film and shot again. But the car was at the end of the block by then. The driver accelerated into the turn and was gone.

Damn! Joanne said, Damn! Damn! Damn! She advanced the film. LXV 764. Illinois. LXV 764. LXV 764— She grabbed for her notebook and wrote the number down. LXV 764. Illinois.

She turned to look at the Volkswagen, muttering, Must’ve been drunk. She took shots of the damage from several angles and recorded the black streaks on the pavement. Then she recapped the Canon’s lens, dropped the camera in her case and set off running.

Her home was a block from the park. A modest house. Tidy. Gray-roofed, gray-painted brick with white trim and carport, and a stoplight-red front door. She was breathing hard by the time she got it open.

The living room was near dark. Its only illumination—entering by the high window at the east end of the room—was filtered through luxuriant Boston ferns hung in lieu of drapes. In the dim light, quilts and pillows dumped on the couch and coffee table the previous night made a trolls’ kingdom of formless shapes and shadows. The blue light from the VCR glowed through a curtain of pothos leaves from the plant on the shelf above and threw jungle silhouettes against the walls. Joanne blinked to accustom her eyes to the darkness.

Her sprint from front door to telephone was interrupted by the gawky half-man that was her son, Sean. The fourteen-year-old stretched as he crossed her path, stopping just short of collision.

Aaahhh. Morning, Ma-ahh. He half-covered the yawn with one forearm, and circled Joanne with the other.

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and slipped out of her coat, draping it over the encircling arm. She opened the camera case and dropped her keys in before setting the case on the dining table by the kitchen door. She took the Canon and her notebook out and backed into the kitchen, pushing the door open with her rump and letting it swing closed on Sean as he followed her. "Hello!"

Sean caught the door autonomically. Damn! I overslept! He was looking out the kitchen window, at the struggle going on between sun and cloud.

Joanne swung the camera onto the center island and put her notebook next to it. It’s only 7:30. You forgot the time change.

As she reached for the wall phone by the door, she said, Daylight savings strikes again! She punched 9-1-1 and held up a finger to silence Sean.

A voice at the other end of the line said, Northbrook Police. Emergency.

I’d like to report a hit and run.

Injuries?

No. No people hurt. She propped the phone on her shoulder and began to rewind the film in the Canon. Somebody side-swiped a parked car.

Did you get a look at the driver?

A man. Older. White. He was heading south on Angle, toward Shermer. He’s probably halfway to Chicago by now. She popped the camera open and removed the film.

Can you describe the suspect’s car?

Gray—I don’t know what kind—something foreign, like a Mercedes or a BMW. New. License number… She put the film roll down and opened her notebook. …LXV 764. Illinois.

Your name?

She told him, and her address.

OK, the cop said. I’ll get this description out and send an officer to make a report. It may be a while. Everyone’s tied up right now. Thanks for calling.

As she hung up, Joanne wondered what he meant by a while. She had to get her pictures downtown, and if she didn’t leave soon, she’d spend the next hour and a half in traffic.

She tossed the film in the air and caught it. Sean, do me a favor and straighten the living room a bit before the cops get here.

What’re you gonna be doing?

Developing this film. I got at least one shot of a hit-and-run car and a few of the damage he did. I’m sure the police’ll want them, but I have some stuff I don’t want to lose on the roll. And I don’t want them screwed up by—God knows who develops their film.

Awesome! My ma, ace crime reporter.

Get going. And get ready for school.

Shit! Does this mean you’re not going to drive me?

That’s right. If you don’t hurry and arrange something soon, you’ll have to take the bus.

Oh no! Not that! Anything but the bus!

In the darkroom, in the dark, she was able to speculate while she cracked open the canister and put the exposed film in the small stainless steel film tank.

Maybe the driver was drunk. But at 7:00 in the morning?

She turned the light back on and punched her work number into the wall phone, testing the developer with a paper strip while the phone rang. It was still good. Barely. She turned on the water and adjusted it to the correct temperature. When the thermometer she’d hung under the stream agreed with her guesstimate, she put it with the bottle of developer in a plastic pail and let the water fill the pail.

May’s voice came over the phone line. Good morning. Rage Photo.

May, you’re in early! Joanne didn’t wait for a reply. I’m going to be late. There was an accident…No, thank God, but I’m a witness, and the police want a statement. God knows how long it’ll take to drive in by the time I’m through. Tell Daniel to stand by. I have Rick’s aftermath shots in the can and some great geese that I’d like to get back today.

She hung up the phone and checked the thermometer, then took the developer from the pail and replaced it with the film tank before pouring developer in the top of the tank. After she’d stirred it, she set the timer, checking the time on a faded chart above the sink. It hadn’t changed since she’d last developed film, but she always checked.

After the fix, the film had to be rinsed for five minutes. Then she cut the roll into strips of six frames and blotted the corners to hasten the drying. The hair dryer she kept for the purpose quickly readied it for printing.

By the time Sean announced, Mom! The fuzz’s here, she had a proof sheet in the fix and the best negative on the roll in the enlarger. She hit the switch on the enlarger and the timed light glowed, then died.

Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.

The car’s image had begun to materialize. It solidified on the paper until it stood out sharply in the red light. It was a commonplace miracle that never failed to astonish and entertain her.

The fuzz turned out to be female. Fizz, Sean corrected himself under his breath when Joanne asked him to come into the darkroom and dry the prints she’d just made.

Joanne thought the officer seemed unnecessarily officious. Or nervous, perhaps. Maybe new to the job. It was, after all, only a car that was hit.

The woman asked for her name, phone number, and driver’s license before she asked anything else, and as Joanne described what had happened, she took notes.

Listen, Joanne said, You don’t have to give my name to the local press, do you. Could you just say ‘a witness’ saw a car speed away?

The cop shrugged. If anybody asks me. Usually, they don’t though…What about the driver?

A man. The cop waited. It was so fast…When he saw me, he was startled—that’s when he lost control and hit the car.

Did he slow down or stop?

No. After he hit the car, he speeded up.

You said it was a late model, gray import—like a BMW or a Mercedes?

"I think so, but I’m not a car buff. I do have a picture…"

Two

Rage Photo was in the Goss Building, occupying the east half of the top floor. It was walking distance from the Rock & Roll McDonald’s at Clark and Ontario, where the staff often went for lunch. Joanne entered the building by the delivery door and took the freight elevator up. Riding in it always made her feel a little uneasy. Not that it wasn’t ritzy for a freight elevator. It had a wrought iron art deco gate that disappeared overhead when it got to your floor, and it was large enough to accommodate a VW bug if you pushed it in sideways. But it wasn’t really enclosed. She’d seen too many suspense movies where someone falls down the elevator shaft or just gets the gate shut before the bad guy grabs her foot. She always felt relieved when she was beyond arm’s length from the thing.

She was one of only three Rage employees who had a key to the back door, ten feet from the elevator. She used it to let herself in.

The door opened into a small waiting room that was bisected by a white Formica counter running eastward from the door. Except for Rick, her boss, who was sitting in May’s chair behind the counter, the room was empty. Rick had a phone wedged between his left ear and shoulder. He was thirty-one, but could have passed for twenty-four. His straight, dingy blond hair hid his face as he pored over May’s appointment calendar. He didn’t look up when Joanne closed the door and shrugged out of her jacket. Between comments into the phone, he told her, Jo, this better be good—at least a fifty car pile up!

She hung the jacket on one of the half-dozen wooden pegs along the wall opposite the counter. The room opened into a hallway that had doors to Rick’s office and the little dark room on the right, and Hancock’s office, the john and the storeroom on the left.

My car wouldn’t start. I took the train.

Rick finally put the phone down and looked at her. The train that promises on-time delivery? He swept the hair back, off his forehead.

"I left late. Didn’t May tell you? Where is May?"

I sent her on an errand.

Joanne fished two Ziploc bags of exposed film out of her camera case. Daniel still here?

Eatin’ his head off the last hour and a half.

Joanne walked over and patted Rick’s cheek, then called, Daniel!

Here. Daniel’s voice floated down the hall. Joanne followed it back.

The angular young man backing out of Hancock’s office with a mail tray of film envelopes was the company gofer. He had what Joanne called a Botticelli hair cut—a little longer than a Beatles cut and at least five centuries older. It didn’t go with his black leather jacket, or the shirt showing beneath it that advertised Anthrax. Daniel’s knees poked through the holes in his jeans, and his untied laces were tucked into his high-tops. He mumbled, Hi, Jo, through a mouthful of donut.

See what I mean? Rick called, with mock disgust.

Fuck you, Rick, Daniel said.

At this, Hancock came out of his office and leaned against the door jamb with a sour smile. He held another film envelope aloft, staring pointedly at Daniel until the young man brought the tray back for it.

Well, Hancock said to Joanne, If it isn’t our ten o’clock scholar. His thinning, red-blond hair was parted and combed back from a receding forehead. He had pale brows over faded blue eyes, and a strong jaw. With the conservative suits he habitually wore, he looked more like a Loop attorney than a commercial photographer.

Joanne ignored him as she balanced the Ziploc bags on the top of Daniel’s tray. She knew better than anyone else that Hancock’s misanthropy was a facade. He’d loaned her the down payment for her house—just handed her a check for the amount without a word.

I need these back yesterday, Joanne told Daniel.

Swallowing, Daniel watched Hancock as he said, You and the Princess. Hancock was gay, and Daniel—though generally civil—had an adolescent’s contempt. He called Hancock the Princess whenever the photographer was being especially trying. The deadline for his series must be getting close if he was getting on Daniel’s nerves.

Joanne dug a twenty dollar bill out of her camera case and held it out to Daniel. Get some donuts.

Someone had discovered that if you took donuts in with the film and waited, the lab guys would run the order through immediately—but only if it came without paperwork. Hancock’s tray of elaborately labeled envelopes would take their place in the queue and be back in the afternoon at the earliest. Joanne’s would return with Daniel.

Daniel nodded as she dropped the money in the tray.

Get more for us, too. She watched Hancock watch Daniel as he retreated down the hall.

Hancock gave an exaggerated sigh, then turned and demanded, Tell us about this accident.

Joanne was going over her appointment calendar when Daniel got back. The two plastic Ziploc bags had been exchanged for a paper bag containing boxes of slides. She opened the first, from the geese series, onto her desk and began the tedious task of dating and numbering the transparencies.

When she had all the identifying info on each frame, she put them in the projector cartridge for study. All that were out of focus, and some that were just boring or in which the subject was too far away, went in the trash. She was about to put the rest back in the box when Hancock strolled up.

Wait.

She hesitated. Hancock’s scrutiny made her nervous, but it was also flattering. In private, he often made helpful suggestions. At worst, when an audience was present, he was noncommittal.

He spent as much time looking over the pictures as she had, than said, OK.

Not particularly helpful.

As she shuffled them back into the box, he fished her discards out of the trash and put them back in the projector tray. He looked them over as carefully as he had the others. He finally stopped at one of the miscellaneous scenery shots with the Crestwood Senior Housing building in the background.

I’d blow this up more and have another look before I gave up on it, he said. He fast-forwarded through the rest of the discards again and returned all but one to the trash. Try cropping this. He made a frame with the thumb and index fingers of his hand that cut an almost abstract composition of geese and grass and park fixtures from the jumble projected on the screen.

She gave him a rueful smile. I know. Back to basics.

Three

Through the kitchen window, Paul Minorini could see a black-and-white police car, parked outside at the curb, and beyond it, the dark back of the bored patrolman assigned to it. Minorini brought his attention back into the room, to the man who was briefing him. Northbrook detective Doug Gray looked like a plumber. He was Caucasian, five-eight, 280 pounds, with thinning, near-white hair, and gray-blue eyes. He seemed cooperative for a local.

Minorini wasn’t fooled. Gray might lack the experience of a big-city homicide detective, but he wouldn’t miss much, no matter how well he camouflaged predator instincts behind a bland demeanor. Minorini wouldn’t patronize him.

A neighbor, Gray was saying, stopped by on his way to work this morning with some mail left at his house by mistake. When he didn’t get an answer at the door, he got suspicious because our victim was as predictable as a TV sitcom. Anyway, the neighbor looked through the window and saw feet and called nine-one-one.

Minorini nodded. The feet were no longer on the kitchen floor, the body having been removed to the Cook County morgue for autopsy, but their position had been marked on the white linoleum with strips of black plastic electrical tape. As had the rest of the body except the head. The victim’s head had made its own mark—with the blood that seeped from two small caliber bullet holes.

As near as we can tell, Gray continued, he opened the door and let the killer in—maybe at gunpoint. The goof shot him through the eye, then put the gun to his head and finished him. Twenty-two or twenty-five caliber, probably silenced.

The killer locked up on his way out?

Yeah. The patrol officer had to kick the door. There were no other signs of forced entry. Gray waited as Minorini looked around.

Apart from its lack of feminine touches, the room was a standard suburban kitchen—white walls and linoleum floor, white-painted cabinets, white appliances, and mini-blinds that substituted for curtains. The accessories—dishrags and towels—were the washed out blue-and-lavender-with-geese that had been the rage years earlier. Black fingerprint powder was smudged on any surface that looked like it would hold a print. From the number and distribution of smudges, Minorini judged that the technician knew what he was doing. Why not? They might not have murders in