The Wrong Man

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Something bad is going to happen to Kathy Rubinkowski tonight.

But at the moment she is preoccupied with the tight parallel-park job, navigating the tiny space available just a block from her apartment. She has no business fitting her Accord in the minute gap between the SUVs, but finding a spot within two blocks of her condo is as rare as a sighting of Halley’s Comet, so the effort-and the inevitable dings from the neighboring vehicles-is worth it.

She looks about her before she kills the engine. Gehringer Street, this far north, is populated by gated walk-up condo buildings and the occasional single-family dwelling, usually awaiting a remake from the next yuppie couple that moves in. At a few minutes before eleven P.M., the street is empty and sleepy. The lighting is decent. A light fog clings to the streets, courtesy of the rising temperatures today. It is January in the Midwest, but this afternoon it peaked at forty-two degrees.

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