But something is nibbling at the back of my neck.
I get into my car and make the drive into Chicago, up Lake Shore and then Sheridan to Maddox’s shop. His Rolls-Royce isn’t in his private spot, so I pull into it. It’s not like he’s using it, after all.
I walk the perimeter. Nothing out of place, except for the fact that it’s closed. The Maddox Hathaway I know would never miss an opportunity to make money, especially for such a prolonged amount of time. I can’t see through the windows as his curtains are drawn, but everything seems normal.
I walk up the back staircase to the rear of the apartment he keeps over the shop. I try to peek through the window, but again, the curtains are drawn.
Out of curiosity, I try the door. It’s locked.
Did I just drive thirty minutes for no good reason?
I have to keep looking until I find something. I walk the perimeter of the shop again, keeping a watchful eye out for anything out of place.
Of course, if there were any clues of foul play—footprints, evidence of a break-in—they’d be long gone by now. It’s been a month. And if Rouge is behind this, she would cover her tracks very well. She may be unhinged, but she’s not stupid.
Still, I keep my eyes fixed on the pavement for some sort of clue—something small that a perpetrator might have missed.
My eyes are so glued to the sidewalk lining Maddox’s shop that I walk right into his mailbox.
It hits me right in the gut, knocking the wind out of me.
Without thinking, I kick the post that holds the mailbox up. “Damned thing.”
And now my stomach and my toes are in pain.
But wait.
Maddox’s mailbox.
It must be filled to the brim if he’s been gone a month.
It’s a federal crime for me to open his mailbox. But I could say that I was a concerned friend, wanted to make sure his shop didn’t come under foreclosure or something like that.
Whatever. No one’s looking anyway.
I open the box.
It’s empty.
Maybe Maddox is having a neighbor clean out his mailbox. Or he had his mail stopped at the post office.
Still, I reach in, grope around.
And my fingers land on a small piece of paper. I pull it out.
It’s from the Chicago PD.
What the hell?
It got stuck to a piece of wayward metal at the top of the mailbox. If someone is emptying Maddox’s mailbox, they could have easily missed this.
Again, it’s a federal crime to open another person’s mail.
But Maddox would never press charges against his best buddy, would he?
If he’s truly on this protracted holiday, then I don’t know him anymore. It’s so out of character.
But again, I can defend myself as a concerned friend. I look over my shoulder and slip my fingers under the flap of the envelope, pull out the letter.
