by Rick Polad
DRUG AFFAIR
RICK POLAD
Minneapolis
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Dedication
Other Spencer Manning Mysteries
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Minneapolis
FIRST EDITION April 2019
DRUG AFFAIR Copyright © 2019 by Rick Polad.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Calumet Editions, 6800 France Avenue South, Suite 370, Minneapolis, MN 55435
Cover and interior design: Gary Lindberg
To friends...gifts more valuable than gold.
Other Spencer Manning Mysteries
Change of Address
Dark Alleys
Harbor Nights
Missing Boy
Cold Justice
Death’s Door
Chapter 1
We were all sitting in the beach room of Mrs. Margot’s multi-million-dollar house in Kenilworth. An all-glass wall overlooked a private beach and, farther out, slight swells on Lake Michigan. White, fluffy clouds drifted across a blue afternoon sky.
I had never met Agent Thward, but his reputation had preceded him. He was a big man who had two modes of operation, depending on where on the social ladder you were. Mrs. Margot, living in the highest income congressional district in the country, was on the top rung. He worked out of the Chicago FBI office, and word on the street was that he was far better suited to being a guard on a chain gang. The people on the bottom rungs could testify to that. He had one personal chink in his tough guy armor—his first name was Pegasus, and behind his back people called him Peggy. Some had called him that to his face. A few of those had regretted it. I wasn’t going to call him anything. He wore an off-the-rack tan suit with a jacket that was too tight across the shoulders.
Besides Thward, Mrs. Margot’s lawyer, Mr. Malbry, looking every bit the part of the fee he was surely charging her, and the chief of police in Kenilworth, Sawyer, who smiled a lot and was probably more concerned about campaigning than solving crimes, were also there.
But then, crimes weren’t allowed in Kenilworth, just an hour north of Chicago but separated by the stuff of fairy tales. You could barely get a glimpse through towering trees of the huge mansions that were guarded by wrought iron fences and gate houses that were bigger than most houses in the city.
With finger sandwiches on a silver platter and a well-stocked bar tended by a barkeep, one could have the feeling that we were there to discuss something other than the arrest of Mrs. Margot’s son, Reynolds, on drug charges. Crimes in Kenilworth were handled with kid gloves... and somewhere along the way was the pull it took to buy the presence of an FBI agent. I figured he wasn’t there to help the state make its case.
I was part of the crowd because I had performed miracles for a friend of Mrs. Margot a few years back, and she was hedging her bet with her influence. If her money couldn’t buy it, and she needed a miracle, I was on the sidelines.
Reynolds, eighteen years old, had been arrested a week ago on the west side of Chicago for selling heroin from his BMW. He was charged with possession and sales. He had somehow thought it would help to repeat over and over again that he wasn’t a user to the arresting officer. So far it hadn’t helped. He had been released on a very high bond and was awaiting trial like everyone else. The atmosphere in the room wasn’t tense, like it should have been for a young man facing serious prison time. Mrs. Margot was entertaining guests as she had done hundreds of times before at hundreds of cocktail parties for some event or another. I wondered where the tension was. It should have been there.
I just sat and listened and watched the clouds as everyone else told Mrs. Margot what a shame it was and that they were sure it would all work out. As the clouds drifted by, I realized that this not only appeared to be a cocktail party—it was. And it was obvious that this wasn’t their first meeting. I hadn’t been invited to that one… one where something had been worked out. And the parties that had worked it out were in this room eating finger sandwiches. The reason for the lawyer was obvious, and the chief of police was probably expecting a large donation for his campaign.
That left Thward. I turned to look at him. He had a permanent smirk on his face… he was enjoying this audience with money, knowing he was the top dog in the room. But he wasn’t a man I would trust or would want to be in a dark alley with. If I wanted someone who would have my back, it wouldn’t be him. All I knew about him was from his reputation, and that wasn’t good. But I did know that he was the reason why there was no tension in the room and no worry on Mrs. Margot’s face. Whatever had been worked out had been worked out with him.
I looked around the room and saw a photo of a young man on a table in the corner. I assumed the man was Reynolds. I had no sympathy for drug dealers, but I suddenly felt sorry for Reynolds. He had been thrown to the feds… by his mother. And I couldn’t help wondering if it was out of concern for her son or her reputation that she had made her deal with the devil.
***
By the time they had all started to leave I had pretty much decided there was nothing there for me to spend time on. Reynolds had been caught red-handed. The cops wouldn’t have to do much work on this one. I got up to leave with Chief Sawyer, and Mrs. Margot asked me to wait for her in the den. She pointed across the hall.
It was a rich man’s den with a large wooden desk, built-in bookcases, thick carpeting, and leather chairs and couches. There was a lot of purple. Northwestern wasn’t too far down the lake front. I wandered around the room and looked at photos and awards, then sat down on one of the couches and listened to polite chatter in the hall. When they had all left, Mrs. Margot came in and sat next to me.
“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Manning. Babs speaks very highly of you. May I call you Spencer?”
“Sure, but I don’t see how I can help here, Mrs. Margot. I—”
She smiled, moved so that her leg was almost touching mine, and said, “Please, call me Jeanne.” There was a sultry hint to her voice that made me nervous.
I nodded. But I wasn’t going to call her Jeanne. I shook
my head. “I’m an investigator. I look into things that don’t make sense… look for the truth in fields full of question marks. There are no question marks here. We already know the truth.”
Closing the distance between our legs, she put her hand on my thigh and said, “But maybe you could find something that would make it not quite so bad. He’s really a good boy. He’s just lost his way after his father died a few years ago. I haven’t been able to…”
I tried to feel sorry for her, but there was no sincerity in her words, and I didn’t feel comfortable with the seductress. I moved to my left, putting some space between us, and again tried to explain the situation, but she got up and walked to her desk and came back with her checkbook. Evidently that was the next strategy if the hand on the thigh didn’t work. She sat back down, opened the book, and started to write. I stopped her.
“Mrs. Margot, save the check. I don’t want your money.” She looked shocked. I wasn’t fazed by shocked… concerned would have been nice.
“Look,” I said, “I hope it all turns out well, but I just don’t see how I can help. There’s just nothing—”
The first break in her wall of composure stopped me. Her forehead wrinkled, her eyes narrowed, and there was a hint of fear.
I turned on the couch to face her. “You seem to have some deal worked out here with Agent Thward, and you have the chief of police sitting in your house. My advice would usually be to get a good lawyer, but I assume you have already done that.”
She took a deep breath. “If you can measure good by expensive, then I guess I have.”
I shrugged. “Then what do you want from me?”
She looked across the room and out the windows, and it was a good minute before she responded. After another deep breath, she said, “The one thing all those people can’t give me and my money can’t buy… someone to look after my son... someone to make sure all this will be okay.” She paused and took a quick breath as her eyes welled up. “I’ve tried, and…”
I wasn’t interested in the Mrs. Margot who had been on display for the last hour. But she had traded places with Jeanne. There was a mother in there somewhere… or was she just a good actress?
I covered her clasped hands with my right hand. “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll look into it.”
Now the tears ran, and she took my hand. “Thank you. What will you do?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. But I’d like to talk to Reynolds at some point. Would that be all right?”
“Of course.”
“And I need to know what’s going on with the FBI.”
She shook her head. “I’m not real sure. My lawyer, Mr. Malbry, has been dealing with him. They want help with something and are willing to drop the selling charge if he cooperates.”
“That’s all you know?”
She nodded.
It wasn’t hard to figure what they wanted help with. Convicting a rich kid from the suburbs wouldn’t get Thward much, but getting whomever was next up the ladder would. And that ladder would eventually lead to the Prophets, the top gang in Chicago. A large portion of their money flow came from drugs, and that flow reached way past the city limits of Chicago.
“Okay, I’ll need to have a chat with Mr. Malbry, but he may not be too happy about my getting involved.”
“That’s no problem. I’ll remind him who’s signing his checks. I’ll make a call when you leave and tell them to expect a call from you.”
Mrs. Margot was back, but Mrs. Margot, and evidently her checkbook, did have some value.
She got up, went to her desk, and came back and handed me his card—Keats, Malbry, and Jennings, Ltd. imprinted on a white linen card. She picked up her checkbook.
I stopped her again. “I still don’t want your money. I’ll look into it, and if there’s anything I can do, then we’ll talk about money.”
She looked surprised. “I assume you need to make a living, Spencer. I don’t want you spending time for free.”
I smiled. “Be careful about assumptions. I don’t need to make a living. I can be picky about what I do, and I don’t take cases I don’t believe in. But I have a few charities that never turn down donations, so we’ll talk if anything comes of this.”
She looked like she wanted to ask questions, but she just nodded. “Well, let me know if you need anything. Do you want to talk with Reynolds now? He’s in his room.”
“No. I’d like to get some information first. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. You have my number?”
“I do.”
I put the card in my shirt pocket and stood.
“Thanks for coming, Spencer. I’m glad you’re helping.” She put out her hand.
I shook it and said, “Like I said, I’ll look into it, but I think you have all you can expect to have going for you already.”
“Well, even if you just confirm that, I’ll feel better.”
“Okay. I’ll be in touch.”
She walked me to the door and looked surprised when she saw my baby-blue mustang. As soon as I had turned into the driveway, I had felt out of place. But I was surprised by what she said next.
She looked wistful as she said, “My father had a ‘66 Mustang. His was green. Is this a ‘66?”
“It’s a ‘65.” I touched her shoulder and walked to the car. As I drove out the long drive I glanced in the mirror. She was still standing at the front door, and I had the feeling she wanted to wave goodbye. I felt sorry for her but was also wary. There was something about Mrs. Margot that wasn’t quite right.
As I pulled out of the drive and headed south I glanced at the for sale sign in front of the house across the street and wondered what the price tag was. Wondering was all I could afford.
Chapter 2
Wednesday night was gin night with Stosh. I headed south on Sheridan and took Lake Shore Drive to Montrose. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into Stosh’s drive where my Mustang was more at home. It was just a little after four. I had two hours to myself. I set up the card table and settled into the recliner with a book on Chicago crime history. Stosh probably had a bigger collection than the library.
Somewhere in the midst of thumbing through the book I had fallen asleep. The sound of his car door closing woke me up, and I had the book open when he walked in the door.
“Hi, kid. Sorry to ruin your nap.”
“Wasn’t napping. I’ve been catching up on crime.”
“Right.” He hung his holster on the coat rack and said he’d be right with me.
I heard the water running in the bathroom and the door open.
“I want to hear about your trip up north, but I’m starved,” he said. “Let’s go get some Italian.”
I set the book on the table and pulled the recliner to vertical. He drove.
I filled him in on Mrs. Margot and her son at Bella’s, a small neighborhood restaurant. We ordered lasagna and spaghetti. I told him about the afternoon tea party and Mrs. Margot’s attempt at seduction.
“Be careful with that one, Spencer.”
“What do you mean?”
He took a long drink of Peroni and sighed. “It’s a different world up there behind those brick walls. When you put a lot of money and good looks together you get women who make great lovers and expensive wives. And they’re very good at both.”
I smiled and said, “I’ll remember that. But I’m not in her league.”
“The league has a wide net, Spencer. I’m saying to be careful.”
“Noted.” I took a bite of bread and said, “And then there’s the drugs.”
He shook his head. “I never get used to these kids getting mixed up with drugs. People think it’s a city problem… bad neighborhoods. But it’s just as bad out in the suburbs, maybe worse because there’s more money.”
I took a drink of Peroni. “Just fancier cars.
And it’s a government problem.”
“How so?”
I shrugged and swirled my beer. “It’s all about what they’re willing to condone. Look at Prohibition. That was a disaster, except for Capone and friends. The government lost a billion dollars a year in tax revenue, spent millions trying to enforce it, and the tainted bootleg liquor killed thousands. Great idea. The numbers are even higher today with drugs. Control it and lots of negatives turn to positives.”
“Ah,” Stosh replied with a smile, “but the people who would be responsible for that are making fortunes from the illegal market… and they include law enforcement and politicians. So why would they want to change it?”
“Yeah, government for the people only lasted until politicians found they could get rich off of it.”
Stosh was still smiling. He was used to my soap box proclamations. “Where was Reynolds arrested?” he asked.
“West side… Madison Avenue.”
“Fourth precinct.”
“Who do you know over there?”
“Lieutenant Graves.”
“Would he share?”
“Sure. He owes me. Let me know what you want.”
The food arrived. I watched it steam and said, “I’m not sure what I want. At the moment just a look at the arrest docs. Don’t know what I can do to help, but it seems to make his mother feel better that I’m even willing to look into it.”
He cut into his spaghetti. “I wish Thward wasn’t involved in this.”
My eyebrows went up. “Do you know more about him than I do?”
“That depends on what you know.” He wound spaghetti on his fork.
“Just the street rep… the bit about the chain gang. Has a tough guy reputation, but he was all manners up in Kenilworth.”
“Yup, not saying he’s stupid. He knows how to act around money.”
“Yeah, he was all politeness and smiles.”
Stosh gave me a serious look. “Unless you have another tea party, that’s the last time you’ll see those smiles. Be careful of him.”