The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 44

Several hours of being sedentary had brought the pain and soreness back, and I downed a couple of Tylenol 3s. Once I was moving again, I began feeling much better. As I exited the plane, Dale Newsome was waiting for me with my name prominently displayed on the paper sign he was holding. He was slender and of medium height, with long, dark hair and two weeks of stubble. His circular glasses made him look more like the love child of Johnny Depp and Yoko Ono when they were both very young than a former Chicago cop. Then I had a thought—undercover—and that made everything fit.

"Good morning, Debra Ann, it's good to meet you. Hope you had a pleasant flight. I've put in an open-ended reservation for you at the Villa Toscana—it's in the heart of Boystown, close to everything. It's a Victorian-style bed and breakfast, and your room has a private bath. I think you'll find it clean and safe. I've talked to some friends, and we'll make sure you are not disturbed."

"Thank you for picking me up, Dale," I replied. "That sounds perfect. I hated traveling until Airbnbs came along, and I don't know a better way to take in local culture and color. I haven't really scoped out a plan as to how I'm going to locate Mr. Christensen. But Claire said you might give me some ideas for the best places to start."

"Not to worry, you're in capable hands. We might want to begin with the bathhouse—hopefully, we can get at least a description of the man and some idea of his tastes, habits, and maybe companions. But it's a little too early for that yet. So, what say we get you settled into your room and maybe grab some breakfast? By that time, things should be stirring in the neighborhood."

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed with a smile.

As I slid into the front passenger seat of Dale's black 335i, I was grateful for having a tour guide and no worries of trying to figure out driving in a city new to me.

The bed and breakfast Dale had chosen was perfect. Quaint, but much larger than it appeared from the street, it had been divided into fourteen rooms—many, like mine, with private bathrooms. They'd been furnished with beautiful Victorian pieces and period-appropriate flooring fabrics, wallpapers, and wall hangings. It would be unfair to say the rooms were small— "cozy" would be more accurate. The best part was the bedding, which was plush and inviting. I truly struggled to fight off its siren song, wanting to lie down and not get up until sometime around Christmas.

But Dale and breakfast awaited. So, after unpacking my carry-on, splashing my face with water, and refreshing my makeup, I returned downstairs and went outside to where Dale was perusing his cell phone in the car.

We hit up the Kanela Breakfast Club and dawdled over Julius Meinl coffee and cinnamon chip pancakes, both firsts for me and well worth the wait. Dale and I exchanged stories about our past lives—did Claire know her feelings for Dale were reciprocated, even after all the changes?—until ten-thirty, when we agreed it was time to go to work.

On the way to the Steamworks bathhouse, Dale laid out the ground rules. "Understand that some of their clients aren't 'out' yet. Even for those who are, getting caught with someone other than who they are supposed to be with stirs up jealousies that can turn ugly. The people here are comfortable with me but wouldn't be with you. And who knows, I might have to do some flirting to get the information we need, which works out best if I'm flying solo."

Sometimes, as an investigator, you need to apply your resources wisely. Now seemed like a good time to delegate. "I understand; I'll stay with the car. Can you text me every now and then and let me know how things are going?" I asked.

"Absolutely. Here's the keyfob so you can adjust the climate controls to your liking," Dale replied. "I'll try to make it quick."

As he entered the bathhouse, I busied myself on my phone, researching the Internet again for anything I could find on Mark Christensen in either San Diego or Chicago.