Crazy in Chicago Read Free

neck.
    â€œNo one calls me that any more,” she sputtered.
    â€œBut you are the Bobbi I met this morning?” he persisted. “In your garden right beside mine? About four a.m.?”
    Roberta almost groaned aloud. “Yes,” she muttered. “Now, if you’d like I can—”
    â€œMy name is Cody. Cody Walker.”
    He put out his hand. Roberta stared at it, then finally she reached forward. His tanned hand closed around hers, quickly and crisply, then released it.
    He bit his full lower lip. He was laughing at her again, damn him! Before she could say anything, he continued.
    â€œI’m a reporter with The Streeter . I’m attending the conference, but it’s really just a starting point for a series I plan to write about UFOs, aliens, and conspiracy theories.”
    Roberta’s sinking heart hit bottom. The Streeter! It was bad enough a newspaper reporter had caught her venting her frustrations. But a reporter from The Streeter , a paper that always played up the most sensational angles? She didn’t even want to think about what that might mean.
    If her dismay were visible, he ignored it. “So what’s your role here? Besides moderating this panel?”
    â€œI’m Dr. Jones’s assistant,” she said stiffly. “Among other things, my job is to organize this conference each year.”
    â€œSo you’re the one to ask if I have any questions, right?” He smiled, with a charm that could melt steel. It certainly did strange things to her stomach.
    â€œYes . . . but . . . oh!
    Roberta’s voice rose in alarm. Before her eyes, all color had drained from Cody’s face. He staggered towards her. Her hand shot out to steady him.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œNo . . . yes.” He straightened, shook his head, and blinked. He ran one hand over his face, then blinked again as the color began to return. “I’m . . . I’m fine now.”
    Roberta realized she still clutched his arm. She dropped it.
    Cody looked at his watch. “Gotta go. Want to catch that session on UFOs throughout history.”
    He winked at her. “See you around.”  
    Roberta watched as he hurried from the room, his confident stride showing no sign of the fleeting faintness. She was worried, though. What did he mean, “See you around?”
    Her imagination went into overdrive.
    * * *
    At five minutes to midnight, Roberta limped off the elevator to her apartment, her pumps in one hand, her briefcase in the other. The Adam’s Mark Hotel might not be the largest convention hotel in Chicago, but she felt as if she’d walked twenty miles. After next to no sleep last night, she was exhausted.
    She dropped her shoes onto the carpeted floor outside her door and fumbled in her shoulder bag for the keys. She could almost feel the mattress rising to greet her. Nothing would keep her awake tonight.
    Key in the lock, she paused to listen to the strains of music filtering into the hallway. Yes, that was Jackson Browne, singing Lives in the Balance. She’d always loved that song. She returned her attention to the door, then realized the music came from her next door neighbor’s apartment. Cody Walker’s. The reporter!
    She checked out his door. A line of light shone from under it. Between the music and the light, he must still be up—and she had to talk to him. She’d tried unsuccessfully all afternoon and into the evening to reach him, first at The Streeter , and then at the home number directory assistance had given her.
    Wavering, she looked at his door. She was tired. She didn’t feel like talking. But this was important. Visions of the sensational headlines that might result if she didn’t act now flashed through her head. She groaned. Maybe she was already too late.
    Gritting her teeth, she opened her door and threw the briefcase inside. She stuffed her swollen feet back into her three-inch heels. She had to do