CHAPTER 2
Marin Shaw would never forget the sound of prison doors locking behind her—the whoosh and heavy thud, the dungeon scrape, the almost medieval clunk of the metal workings, or the slow slide of the impenetrable barrier, its opening preceded by a warning blare, a Klaxon cry, when a prisoner was on the move. She knew those sounds, as desolate as a catacomb, as devoid of life as death itself, would wake her in the night in a cold, hard sweat for as long as she lived. The sound of the cell door had already nested in her gut like a watchful raven with twitchy eyes, taunting her, not letting her forget for even a second how she’d thrown her life away for $5,000, a two-martini lunch, and a lie.
“Sign here,” the incurious clerk at the prison-release window said, her blank expression proof that she had become inured to the routine of the turnout process. Prisoners came and went like trains on a track, like loaves of bread down a conveyor belt. The only things that changed were the day and the time and the signature on the form. The clerk pushed a large plastic bag toward Marin. “Check what’s there against the list. Make sure everything’s accounted for.”
Marin pulled the bag toward her, breaking the seal. These were her things. The clothes she’d been wearing that last day in court, when the jury found her guilty of corruption and the judge ordered her taken into custody then and there. Probation had been the hope. Home confinement. But things hadn’t gone her way. Marin hadn’t even gotten a chance to kiss her daughter goodbye or explain where and why she was going. Judge Norman F. Reitman. Three years. Logan Correctional. And three years she’d served, almost to the day.
She’d been Alderman Marin Shaw then. A progressive Democrat, a respected member of the city council. She had also been a lawyer, a wife, a mother, and none of it had been enough. That’s what the alcohol was supposed to help with. It hadn’t.
Marin opened the bag and stared inside to find the remnants of her old self, a woman who now felt as foreign to her as a stranger’s kiss. A navy suit, a silk shirt, pumps, nylons, expensive underthings. Every item well chosen to transmit confidence, assurance, competency. She’d worn the suit many times to city council meetings, knowing that it fit her well and made her look like a boss. There were fifty aldermen on the council, representing fifty wards. That meant fifty bosses, fifty potential felons. Fifty opportunities to cut a deal, bestow a favor, sever a lifeline, or take the dirty cash offered with a nod and a sly wink and have it all end in a pair of handcuffs, a perp walk, a trial, a verdict, and then a humiliating stint. And shame. She couldn’t leave out the shame.
It was all a far cry from her present situation. She glanced down at the baggy jeans, the no-name gym shoes, and the oversize gray hoodie she was going home in. She could literally feel the grit and dead skin cells on her washed-out face. No makeup. Not in three years. She’d pulled her auburn hair back in a bun, the expensive cut and highlight job long gone. This was the Marin Shaw about to meet the world again.
The clerk nodded to the male guard, the signal that Marin was done. Free. Signed out and no longer an inmate. Vaya con Dios. Kick bricks. “Good luck, Ms. Shaw.”
Marin nodded a thanks, then eyed the door as the guard unlocked it and beckoned her forward. No smile. No words of encouragement. No advice for the road. Just an open door. The state was done with her. She was on her own. The time she’d spent inside was all she owed; the rest of what came next was up to her.
The guard led her out. Instantly, the cold hit her like a sledgehammer and nearly took her breath away. It took a moment to adjust, to remember what a Midwest winter was.
“They got cameras at the gate.” He gave her a critical look, head to toe and back. “Everybody wants a look at ya, I guess.” He exhibited not a shred of real interest or concern. He was just noting the media’s presence, like he might alert her to an impending rainstorm. Rain’s a-comin’. Might want to get that umbrella out.
But Marin wasn’t the first alderman to pass this way, nor would she be the last. Corruption and those who fed on it and kept it going were baked into the bricks in Chicago. It was the fuel the city ran on; without it, very little moved. That’s what had made it so easy to succumb to temptation, to play along to get along—at least that’s what she told herself in quiet moments. In quiet moments, she could almost convince herself that there had been cause, reason, justification for her actions. That a souring marriage, a husband who cheated, alcohol dependence, well hidden but there, had made her vulnerable and not completely responsible.
But that was wrong. All this was on her.
Marin looked over the lawn of Logan Correctional toward the high fence a distance away to the hub of reporters, news cameras, and curious onlookers clustered around the gate. She was famous, or infamous. Yet another Chicago politician sent down for taking what didn’t belong to them. A greedy lawmaker who’d sold her soul for less than the cost of a midsize car, betraying the trust of her constituents, dishonoring her family and herself. That’s how they’d played it, then. That’s how they likely saw her now. But there’d been more to it. There was always more.
Marin clocked the black SUV parked in the intake slot. Her ride to freedom. The back passenger door opened, and Charlotte Moore, her lawyer and friend since law school, emerged dressed like Marin had once, back when she was the other Marin, the one who thought she had the world on a string, only to find out at the bang of the judge’s gavel that she had been the puppet, not the puppet master.
Charlotte sported designer sunglasses, though the day was gunmetal gray. She held a heavy coat in her hands, smiling. “You’re going to need this.”
Marin ran for the coat, trading her bag of old things for it, wasting no time putting it on and zipping it up.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Charlotte said as she held the back door open for her. “Let’s get out of here, huh? This place reminds me of my failures.”
Marin slid her a look as she jumped inside. “Mine too. Sunglasses?”
Char grinned. “Late night.”
“He have a name?”
“I beg your pardon. It was quite respectable. John. James. Something with a J. Drinks at the Marq, and then his place. All very classy.”
Marin hadn’t expected her husband or daughter to pick her up. They’d discussed it, and neither she nor Will wanted to expose Zoe to any more of the circus than they had to. Thirteen-year-olds had enough to deal with without having to share the shame of a convict mother. Besides, Will hadn’t insisted on being here, anyway. They hadn’t spoken more than a handful of times in three years, and there’d been no visits. He cited concerns for Zoe’s well-being, of course, but Marin knew that wasn’t it. Her husband was a selfish man. His reputation and image meant everything to him. He would never stoop so low as to walk through prison gates, for her or anyone else. The few times they’d spoken on the phone, she’d heard anger in his voice, resentment, coldness, and worse, an air of righteousness. He blamed her for the taint she’d placed on him and his business interests. He was guilty by association, he’d told her, seething, and had lost clients as a result. She’d heard the same anger in Zoe’s voice after she’d been inside about a year. It was likely the result of Will’s influence. Marin had let them both down, that was clear. She’d left Zoe without a mother at a time when she needed one most. There was a lot to rebuild—trust, forgiveness, love—and the work was all Marin’s to do.
“Breathe,” Charlotte said when she slid into the back seat next to her.
“I am.”
Charlotte flicked her a skeptical look. “Breathe better.” She put a comforting hand on Marin’s. “It’s done. You got this.”
Marin settled back against the leather seat when the car started moving. She inhaled, held it, then exhaled, watching through the window as the prison complex got smaller and the car got closer to the gate.
“I appreciate the tinted windows.”
“I knew you’d look like someone who just got out of prison. Thinner, though. What diet were you on?” Charlotte grinned.
“I was on the I-just-fucked-up-my-life plan.”
Charlotte angled her head, considered it. “Nah, I’ll pass.”
Marin studied Charlotte, who looked as she did once, powerful, gym fit, pulled together in all the right places. Before this, they could have passed for sisters; both were world beaters. Now, Marin had a record, no profession, and a mess to clean up at home.
“Hopefully, they’re not camped out in front of the house,” Marin said as she ducked her head in shame as she passed the reporters, their cameras zoomed in hoping to catch a glimpse of her silhouette through the glass. “Maybe they at least have the decency to give me that much.”
“They’ve been there for days,” Charlotte said flatly. “Ever since news of your release leaked.”
“Leaked how?”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re not going there.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain later. Let’s get out of here first.”
“Stop the car,” Marin called to the driver, tapping the back of his seat. “Now.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Charlotte watched the reporters race toward them, frenzied looks on their faces. “Marin, they’ll eat you alive.”
The car eased to a stop. Marin could hear the running feet as reporters stampeded toward the car for a chance at a juicy sound bite. “Tell me.”
“I don’t want to do this here, Marin. These vultures have been waiting three years to get to you.”
The reporters weren’t her concern. What could they do to her at this point? What was left of her dignity to protect? “All of it, Char. Now.”
Charlotte placed a hand on the back of the driver’s seat. “Tom, could you step out for a sec?”
Tom flicked a nervous look at the horde of reporters surrounding the car. “Are you serious?”
“Just for a minute. You’ll be fine. It’s her they want. Tell them nothing, not even your name.”
Tom shut the car off and stepped out into the cold, closing the door behind him. Charlotte shifted in her seat, resigned, then reached over to make sure the car doors were locked before her eyes met Marin’s. “Fine. You want all of it here and now, here it is.” Outside, reporter voices shouted rapid-fire questions through the glass, video cameras and cell phones trained on the back and side windows. None of them paid Tom any attention.
“You’re an entitled crook. A cross between Ma Barker and Leona Helmsley. That’s how they’re playing it. You masterminded the entire scheme, you ran it, and were out to get whatever you could get. Shady businesses paid you, and you greased the city council wheels to turn in their favor. I know you weren’t in it alone, but because you refused to flip, cutting me off at the knees, I’ll remind you, you got sent up for the full weight.” Charlotte held up her hands to stop Marin from interjecting. “I know. Whatever. Water under the bridge. But you know me, I hate to lose. It burned my ass then, and it’s still burning. Those bastards threw you under the bus, double-crossed you, and then slid right back into their ratholes unscathed. You tied my hands, Mar, and you denied the feds the bigger fish, and that’s why you ended up here.” She pointed an angry finger at the window. “But now, those assholes out there smell a hell of a good story, and they want it. And the rats are shitting bricks about what you might say. You’re the ‘get’ of the century, Marin Shaw, and they’re not going anywhere.” She resettled in the seat. “As for home . . .”
“It’s Will,” Marin said, reading the truth of it on Charlotte’s face.
Charlotte checked on the reporters again. “God, I wouldn’t take their job on a bet. Look at them. They’re practically salivating.”
“Char.”
“All right. He feels that with all this attention, things might be better for Zoe if there was a bit of a transition period. An easing back in? He’d like you to hang out in the condo downtown for a week or so just until things maybe die down. Then he’ll reassess.”
“He’ll reassess? He told you this?”
“He sent a letter to my office . . . certified mail. He’s not one for a face-to-face confrontation, is he?”
Marin stared out the front window at the driver on his cell phone, the reporters ignoring him. “And Zoe?”
Charlotte let out a sigh. “Quiet. Confused. Noncommunicative since I told her you were getting out. She’s afraid of what comes next.”
“You were there for her, for me. Thanks, Char. You made things easier.” She reached over and gripped her hand. “You’re a good friend. Always have been.”
Char smiled. “I love Zoe, and it’s good practice for when I finally get it all, I figured. Lunch, shopping, plays, the zoo. I never forgot her birthday or Christmas. Then there were all those girl questions. Remember having those at her age? Everything so dire, so mysterious. I kept you in the loop. But the kids at school, you not being there. She’s angry . . . and, again, thirteen. I was an okay substitute, Mar, but I was still a sub. You have a lot to clean up.” The look she gave Marin was one of compassion. “You had to know things would be different?”
A reporter beat on the door, pressed his face to the glass. Marin turned her back and burrowed into the warm coat. A record, no job, and now no home to go back to.
“Not to pour salt,” Charlotte said, “but I told you not to marry him. Will looks good on the arm, but he’s no Albert Schweitzer. He’d sell his own mother for a cover on Fortune magazine.” She snickered. “But I probably would too. You’ve met my mother. Difficult woman.” She slid Marin a sideways look. “I can never please her. Doesn’t stop her from cashing my checks, though, does it?”
“I want to see my daughter,” Marin said. “He can’t keep me from seeing her. And that house? The one he doesn’t want me to come back to? My family’s money paid for it. There’s someone else, there always is. But not in my house, around my kid. That’s the line.”
Charlotte tugged at her buttons, checked the reporters again. “I hear you. You’re too good for him, always were, but love’s tricky.”
Marin stared out the window. “Was it love? I’m not sure. I think we just photographed well together. It’s surprising even to me what I overlooked, what I settled for.” She sat up, squared her shoulders. “Not anymore. I need to close some doors and open new ones. Settle some things.”
“What things?”
Marin didn’t answer.
“Marin?”
Marin eased back into the seat, warmed in the coat. “Nothing to worry about.”
“You know when a lawyer starts to worry? When her client tells her there’s nothing to worry about.” Charlotte leaned over and tapped on the window for the driver, who rushed in and started the car up again. “Let’s go.” She settled back as the car drove away. “To the condo, my friend.”
Marin offered a single nod. “For now.”
FALL by Tracy Clark
In the second book in the Detective Harriet Foster thriller series, author Tracy Clark weaves a twisted journey into the underbelly of Chicago as Harriet and her team work to unmask a serial killer stalking the city’s aldermen.
The Chicago PD is on high alert when two city aldermen are found dead: one by apparent suicide, one brutally stabbed in his office, and both with thirty dimes left on their bodies—a betrayer’s payment. With no other clues, the question is, Who else has a debt to pay?
Detective Harriet Foster is on the case before the killer can strike again. But even with the help of her partner, Detective Vera Li, and the rest of their team, Harriet has little to go on and a lot at risk. There’s no telling who the killer’s next target is or how many will come next.
To stop another murder, Harriet and her officers will have to examine what the victims had going on behind the scenes to determine who could be tangled up in this web of betrayal…and who could be out for revenge.
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Thriller Domestic | Thriller Psychological [Thomas & Mercer, On Sale: December 5, 2023, Trade Paperback / e-Book, ISBN: 9781662512551 / ]
Buy FALL: Amazon.com | Kindle | BN.com | Powell’s Books | Books-A-Million | Indie BookShops | Ripped Bodice | Love’s Sweet Arrow | Walmart.com | Target.com | Amazon CA | Amazon UK | Amazon DE | Amazon FR
About Tracy Clark
Tracy Clark is the author of the Detective Harriet Foster crime fiction series, including FALL (December 6, 2023; Thomas and Mercer) and HIDE (January 1, 2023; Thomas and Mercer). She is a two-time Sue Grafton Memorial Award-winning author and the 2022 winner of the Sara Paretsky Award. The four novels in her Cass Raines series (2018-2021) have also been honored as Anthony Award and Lefty Award finalists and have been shortlisted for the American Library Association’s RUSA Reading List, named a CrimeReads Best New PI Book of 2018, a Midwest Connections Pick, and a Library Journal Best Books of the Year. A native of Chicago, she works as an editor in the newspaper industry and roots for the Cubs, Sox, Bulls, Bears, and Blackhawks equally. She is a board member-at-large of Sisters in Crime, Chicagoland, a member of International Thriller Writers, and serves on the boards of Mystery Writers of America Chicago and the Midwest Mystery Conference.
Chicago Mystery | Harriet Foster
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