passed since his father’s funeral and at times, it felt a little surreal how most things just went back to normal. He’d taken a couple of days off from work to help his mother go through his father’s things, a process that had hit him harder than he’d expected. But he’d buried his emotions down deep and had stayed focused on the tasks at hand—both for his mother’s sake and, admittedly, his own. He felt better when he stayed busy. Doing something, anything, felt good and productive.
Especially when the alternative—sitting around his loft and ruminating—resulted in an eight-inch hole in his bedroom wall.
Not his finest moment.
Fortunately, right then, he had work to distract him. It was a typical Friday afternoon in the Chicago Tribune newsroom, mostly quiet except for the sound of clicking keyboards and occasional conversation as people got up to get coffee. The newsroom was large and open, with no walls separating the desks, and the air pulsed with a feverish beat as everyone raced against the clock to make their deadlines.
Today, he was finishing up a piece that was part of a series in which he’d exposed a multimillion-dollar bribery scheme involving a city transportation official and the company that had won a contract to supply Chicago with its red-light cameras. He’d worked for over a year on this particular series, and the corruption scandal was now the subject of an FBI investigation. He took particular pride in that—like many investigative journalists, he enjoyed seeing that his work had actual impact, and contributed to rectifying a wrongdoing or injustice.
After wrapping up the red-light piece and e-mailing it off, he met with his managing editor, Marty, to discuss an idea for a new story he’d been developing over the last couple of weeks.
“The April Johnson murder? You’re a little late to the party, Dixon. We covered that three weeks ago.”
“Not from this angle,” Ford said. Last month, April Johnson, a seventeen-year-old honors student and artist, had been shot and killed by a gang member a block away from her high school grounds. Because the girl had recently visited the White House and met the First Lady as part of her school’s successful participation in the Department of Education’s “Turnaround Arts” program, her killing had been widely covered in all the Chicago media.
Mostly, the press coverage had focused on the victim—rightfully so, given the tragic circumstances. But Ford had done a little digging, and wanted to explore another aspect of the crime. “Everyone’s focused on how Johnson’s death is a symbol of this city’s problem with gang violence, or using it as a platform to discuss gun control. But I’ve been looking into the nineteen-year-old shooter, Darryl Moore. Apparently, a year ago, he’d been arrested and sentenced to two years probation for illegally carrying a firearm. And get this—a criminal records check shows that the guy got arrested three more times after that. Did the probation department even know about the arrests? Did they know, but fail to take any action? I’m thinking somebody dropped the ball there.”
Marty considered this. “Might be worth checking out what’s in the probation department’s records on Moore.”
“Glad you think so.” Ford grinned. “Especially since I requested the file yesterday.”
Marty shook his head. “Of course you did. All right, run with it.”
Ford worked on the new story for the rest of the afternoon, getting lost in his research. He called it quits for the day at five thirty, and then took a cab from the Tribune building to Home Depot, where he picked up the remaining supplies he needed for his weekend project. He planned to patch the hole in his bedroom wall, and also had decided to mount some bookshelves. Working with his hands would hopefully burn off some of the restless energy he’d been feeling since the funeral.
He checked his phone during the cab ride home. His friends clearly were in Check-On-Ford mode—a coordinated effort, he suspected, seeing how Charlie and Tucker wanted to get together tonight, and Brooke for dinner on Saturday. He texted them all back with a yes, appreciating the gesture and the not-so-subtle attempts to keep him company.
When the taxi pulled up in front of Ford’s building, he spotted a large moving truck.
Ah, right. He remembered now that today was the day his temporary next-door neighbor, Victoria the Divorce Lawyer or Something, was moving in. Seeing that she’d reserved the elevator for the movers, he lugged the two bags of supplies he’d bought at Home Depot, along with