Fly With Fire

by Frances Randon

  “Send him in.” Tyler shifted his tie and sat, leaning back and droning a few last lines as the door opened and Hugh Larson walked in. The chief of police was a round man. Round of body and round of face. His gut pressed against his uniform jacket. He puffed his breaths. Zack found it hard to believe this man had once been the scourge of organized crime and lived. “Hugh, you off the scotch again?” The chief put up a hand. Bobby, get the chief some bubbly water.” He smiled a smile that didn’t reach even the hinterlands of his eyes. The chief smiled in kind. “The rest of you beat it. All a ya. Burnham, you stay.” Zack continued standing straight up in his corner of the room thinking it was possible the Mayor might be afraid of the rotund police chief. He wouldn’t be the first. “So what do I owe the privilege of this visit to, on a Sunday, no less?”

  “I’m getting a lot of calls from the press and from the council. They want to know why I hadn’t already looked into the building inspector thing before it became a federal case. Now it’s all in the papers and reporters are nosing around in my business as well. Can’t you put a lid on this thing? Fire the building commissioner? They can’t expect you to keep track of every trash collector and pencil pusher your department heads hire but shit Gerry, get this tamped down.”

  “They know it’s not your job to keep tabs on me. They’re just turning up the heat. I promise you, the Construction Association is pushin’ this thing. It’s part of their union busting agenda. If your house is clean? No sweat. I’ll keep tabs on my own house. Put your cousin Joey on leave until it all blows over.”

  “He don’t deserve that. He worked his way up, I never lifted a finger. And don’t talk to me about unions. Jesus H. Christ, Gerry, they’re the bane of my existence. You know how many slackers we got out there collecting disability while starting businesses and whole new careers? Or layin’ around lubricating themselves so they can squeeze themselves down the sewer pipe to Hell? Fucking unions. I’ll be calling in the Feds myself if it gets any worse.” Chief Larson snorted indignantly and gulped his sparkling water. He narrowed his eyes at Zack. “The bullet in Ray Pollack definitely came from his own damn service revolver.”

  “This ain’t the time or place.” The Mayor drummed his fingers. “I know it looks bad, but we gotta stand behind our boys. I’ll keep this cretin in my house for the time being.” He thrust a thumb in Zack’s direction. “You get this sorted out so he can get back to work. I don’t need him gettin’ in my way.”

  “He must be an honest cop after all. How’s it feel to play asswipe to your almost father in law, Burnham?” He laughed himself into a wheeze. “I mean it, Gerald. I want the press to stop breathing down my neck. I’ll back up my own, but not if they’re dirty.” He looked meaningfully at Zack, who officially didn’t hear a thing.

  Lifting the key had been easy enough. Neutralizing the camera on 14 East a little more time consuming. The maid’s outfit had been easy enough to come by. He’d seen it for himself, she was doing the guy. He’d seen him coming out of her room. Big runner he. Looks like Rasta was really getting his exercise by banging the woman that was meant to be his. He hoped she was still there. He’d be in before she knew it. She was probably still in bed wondering who else she could fuck.

  He shouldn’t have been shocked at seeing Linc come out of her room. Too bad he had to take the time to cover himself. It had taken him a few minutes to go to his room and change into the maid get up. Make it quick. But he hesitated wondering if his desire for her would interfere. No, she’s a whore. She’s broken his heart. Now, outside the room, he listened. Fell asleep after Mr. Rasta. He twisted his mouth with angered determination and shoved the key in. The light turned green. He turned the knob.

  Zack parked his car down Indiana and walked past where the Veteran’s Museum stood. A big moving truck had been blocking the entry to the small lot of his building. George Travers waved out the window as he posted a sign calling on protesters for a sit in in Washington D.C. He was a grizzled looking man with long gray hair and a red bandana around his head. Zack waved back and headed for the service elevator of his building. Just about to put the key in, the door burst open with an avalanche of tiny, white dogs barking and yanking at their leashes, pulling their walker right into him. Zack managed to avoid being tangled. “You walking them or are they walking you?”

  She laughed. She was a looker he thought. An actress? Yeah. “You gonna arrest me for assaulting an officer?” She flirted with her blue eyes while the dogs yanked. She wore a black T-shirt with no bra. Jesus they were nice. Her neck length, big but softly curled hair was very Marilyn Monroe. Cherisse. Yeah, Cherisse.

  “I’m gonna let you off with a warning this time.” He winked then squatted down and petted Mrs. Powecki’s bichons. They nipped jealously at one another. Four dogs. The dog walker needed the work no doubt, but Mrs. Powecki must be crazy.

  She pulled at the dogs holding all the leashes in one hand and pulled her Lolita sunglasses down over her eyes, pursing her lips. He had a vision of her practicing that look in the mirror. Well, I guess an actress has to rehearse. “I’m more than willing to pay my dept to society, Detective. How’s Gerry?”

  The man sure did get around. Oh that’s right, a great patron of the arts. “Ger…I mean His Honor is just fine.”

  “Well, see ya around detective. Come see my new play. I’m a desk clerk. I’ve only got one line but there will be some important people coming to see it. Byeee!” She swung her hips and looked back over her shoulder with a seductive smile. They want to see more than what you look like behind a desk, he thought as he pushed the elevator button.

  Thank God it was Sunday and he’d done the day shift. His double shift the day before was telling on him. He looked forward to sticking a couple dogs on the terrace grill, breaking open a Hamms, and watching the preseason game. He dumped his shoulder holster, revolver and wallet on the plain thrift store dresser. He threw his suit on the bed and made a mental note to hit the cleaners in the morning. He was looking forward to having Monday off. Instead of turning on the air conditioner he opened the sliding glass door to catch the cool lake breeze. If he looked real hard he could see what was left of his little slice of lake view. A new building was going up that would obscure it completely. A controversial subject his fellow tenants seemed to feel he could do something about.

  His simple condo consisted of a living room, bedroom, galley kitchen and bathroom. No pictures hung on the walls except for one Georgia O’Keefe lithograph; his most prized possession though it was a gift from his ex-wife in happier times. The blinds that came with the condo were still in place after a year. He’d never bothered with new window treatments. The carpet throughout was too bland to even be offensive. He looked around and once again promised himself he’d make something of the place when he found time. He had his eye on a few things to liven up the place. But money and time were two things he didn’t have enough of.

  He stepped out on the minute terrace to light the tiny grill. He thought he’d unpack a few boxes while he listened to the game. He stretched in the breeze and waved at the young couple on their terrace a couple doors over. They ignored his boxers and he ignored the smell of their quickly concealed joint. He thought of the actress wondering if it wasn’t about time he picked up the pace on his dating life. Then he reminded himself that it wasn’t exactly the best time with the investigation into Ray’s murder. Zack thought about how long he’d been alone. He felt and ignored a twinge. But he wasn’t thinking about the actress, he was thinking about a tall, black haired beauty who knew how to fly. He had caught himself foolishly thinking of her throughout the day. Was he just taken with her act? She’d seemed like an entirely different person up close. He fiddled with his tiny grill and finally got it lit. That woman wasn’t afraid of fire but she didn’t come off like a prima donna. He was too humble to believe her asking if he danced meant she might have been interested. He didn’t lack confidence with women but it was of a realistic sort. It was the quiet sort. He wasn’t the swagge
ring type.

  He grabbed the Hamms and opened the package of hot dogs with a paring knife. The beer was ice cold and he chugged a few swallows before putting it down to take the dogs to the grill. The couple had gone inside. No one else was out enjoying the late summer evening. While his hot dogs cooked he held his beer and clicked on the TV to check the time for the game. A news bulletin showing Greendale Coliseum in the background filled the screen. “Tragedy has stricken the popular La Cirque du Celestial. A woman who was a major figure in the show has been murdered in her hotel room. The bludgeoned body of the woman, whose name has not yet been released, was found this afternoon by a hotel maid.”

  “Fuck.” Zack went over to the grill and shut it off. He swallowed the rest of the beer as he grabbed his pants. Just as he zipped up his cell phone rang.

  It being the Mayor’s night to have dinner with his family, he held a brief press conference to extend his condolences and promise assistance to the Greendale police. Then he went back to his corned beef. Why he wanted Zack to go out to Greendale was beyond him but his first reaction had been to go anyway. He’d feared for the beautiful star of the show he’d met the night before and who’d teased at his mind ever since. He was relieved to find out the victim was not Monica Whitman. But the victim had been found in her room. “Holy shit, what’s up with that?”

  Three

  The traffic out to the Greendale Hotel had never seemed slower. The backup was ridiculous even by Chicago standards. O’Hare airport was usually to blame. Fed up he stuck his light on top his Mitsubishi Montero and hit the shoulder. Reporters and cops had cut off the entry to the hotel. He angrily waved a bystander with a video camera out of the way. “Freedom of the press, asshole,” the man yelled. Go blog yourself, Zack thought. He flipped his badge and parked where he could amongst the dozen cruisers with lights flashing. He saw Vince Smith, the head of hotel security, in the lobby. The former CPD cop waved him over. They had a long though not close acquaintance. “You must be here for Tyler. They got the fire girl or whatever the hell they call her in conference three. Witnesses say she was at the arena all afternoon. Witness, that tall black dude over there, puts her in her room with the vic late this morning. Says he left them alone having coffee. What d’ya think, fight over dreadlocks there?”

  “Nah, it wasn’t her. Damage?”

  “Brutal. They’re picking her brains out of the sofa now. Jealousy can be a brutal motive. Guess Ms. Whitman made a good impression on the mayor, send you out. Sorry ‘bout your partner, by the way.” Vince tugged his suit jacket uncomfortably. “I’m gonna get shit on this.”

  News of his partner’s killing had not been missed by anyone. “Thanks. Someone wants to kill someone, there’s not much hotel security’s gonna be able to do about it. They have the videos?” Zack noticed the rotund man’s heavy breathing. It was clear Smith was in a panic about a murder happening on his watch.

  Vince nodded. “Yeah, all of ‘em. But 14 east? Trashed. No video.”

  “Shit.” Zack rubbed his hand on his five o’clock and turned toward conference three. He could see Monica Whitman being questioned. Her head nodded then shook. She put her face in her hands then looked up and nodded some more. She wiped tears from her eyes with a tissue offered her and took a drink of water. His Greendale colleagues surrounded her with their hands on their hips. These could be scary guys. Mostly former CPD, stolen away with offers of big pay to protect the region’s premier showplace. If anyone had noticed it was all Yards guys that got these plum jobs, nobody had made any noise. Big Chicago money had built the place and big Chicago money ran it. Greendale would answer to Tyler. He swooped in. “Boys, give the lady some breathing room. He turned on the Burnham charm. “Al, His Honor said if I see ya, tell ya he hasn’t forgotten the pension benefit dinner. He’ll be glad to say a few words. Harve, how’s the wife? She’s busy with the new one, huh? Simmons? I’m Zack Burnham CPD, nice to meetcha.”

  “Layin’ it on aren’t ya? Chummy with Tyler are ya.” Al was a big man. Big all over and bald with very dark skin. A well decorated cop, he’d finally gotten his family away from the Yards like he’d always threatened. Too late for one of his kids though and that chip tottered perilously on Al Simpson’s shoulder. “Running interference for Tyler’s latest?”

  Word got around, truth or not. “She’s not his latest. She danced with him a couple times.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, but if you going to stand there and talk about me as if I’m not here, I’d like to get another room. I’m exhausted. Where’s Roddy? Mr. D’Mario?” She rubbed her eyes with slender fingers. She looked fragile, not strong like when she hurled her body through the air. Her voice was like crystal that might crack anytime.

  “Your boss is answering questions down the hall.” Al gave her the look that had many a perp spilling his guts on the floor. “Bet he’d do anything to protect the star of the show.”

  “What are you saying? You think I killed my best friend?” She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to calm herself. Quietly she said, “If that’s what you’re implying, should I be talking to a lawyer?” She studied Al Simpson’s big face. She was trying to understand what seemed impossible. Was she being accused?

  “You tell me. You think you need a lawyer, I’ve got to wonder why.” Al glared down at her. And only succeeded in pissing her off. She glared back.

  “I don’t NEED a lawyer, Detective Simpson. But I’m not going to sit here and allow you to imply I would hurt Ling…” Her defiant stance was broken with a sob. She put her head down on the table, shoulders shaking.

  “Hey, Al, lighten up, can’t you see the lady’s upset?” Zack stood in his face and at six two was two inches shorter. “Anyone seen any blood on her, any time she can’t account for? Got a motive?

  “I didn’t know you got a law degree, college boy. She had opportunity for starters. They were possibly romantic rivals. What about Lincoln Harris, Ms. Whitman? Did he want to get her out of the way so he could be with you? Or were YOU jealous of his feelings for Ling Wong?”

  “How many times do I have to answer that question?” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Zack handed her a fresh tissue.

  “As many times as it takes for you to acknowledge you wanted Harris and she was in the way.” Al said sharply.

  She looked up at the detective with a mixture of sadness and frustration. Her voice was a hoarse but determined whisper. “Which is it? One minute you accuse Linc and now you imply I kil…hurt Ling.” She wiped absently at her tears. “Ling” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “Like I’ve already told you, Linc came by to complain about Ling being out all night. He’s in love with her, he’d never hurt her. He would never hurt anyone. He left when Ling came by. She fell asleep on the sofa so I went and had breakfast then got the shuttle to the coliseum. Should I just keep repeating this so you don’t have to keep asking me?”

  “He hurt someone last June in L.A. How about you? You got a temper, little lady?” Simmon’s asked with brows in a scowl.

  “Ask around, little man, it’s been known to flare. But not like this. Oh, my God!” Mo broke into a sob then worked to collect herself. “If you were paying attention you’d have known that Linc saved Ling from a kidnapper.” She put her face down into the overused tissue.

  “What about this Harris?” Zack asked Harve who was holding a rap sheet. He almost stroked Mo’s hair but caught himself.

  “Gotta a juvee in Cleveland for B and E. Reform School. Two years. Clean since then, but…” Harve waved the sheet of paper. “Back in June he got into a fight in L.A. after a show. A guy hassled Ling Wong in a bar and now is suing La Cirque du Celestial for replacement of his front teeth. Charges against the guy were dropped on a tech. Girl claimed the guy tried to drag her out the back door when she went to the ladies’. Lucky for her Harris was coming outta the head.”

  “I hope Hell freezes over before he’s got new teeth. Does it make sense that he saved her only to kill her now?” Zack asked.

>   “Maybe he thought she owed ‘im,” Harve theorized.

  Zack looked at Al. “Come on Al. You can talk to her tomorrow. I’ll take responsibility. Let me get her checked into a new room.”

  “You’ll take responsibility? If I’m not mistaken you’re not a Greendale cop and might not be CPD much longer. You’re only in this room because the chief said Tyler sent you over. But don’t press your luck.” Al jerked his head to where a policewoman was signaling him from the door. With a grunt he strode over. Zack offered Mo more water, but she kept her head down and shook it slightly. Al came back, “Well, get her settled in and since you’re offering to take responsibility, you can keep an eye on her tonight. We ain’t CPD. We only got so many detectives to go around.”

  “Call from your mayor?” Zack raised an eyebrow.

  Al snorted and said, “Simmons, I want that Harris at the station now. Harve we’ll see her at ten a.m. Make sure Tyler’s new pet here is on a leash. This is my investigation, Burnham, and screw Tyler if he thinks he’s going to run it. He’s got enough shit on his hands without trying to cover for a piece.”

  “You can take a boy outta the yard, but you can’t take the yard outta the boy. Isn’t that what your old man always said?” Zack stood his ground as Al towered close. He glared at Zack and said, “You can go, Ms. Whitman. I need you at the station at ten. Harve… Detective Graver, and I will be there.” He walked off.

  Zack took her elbow and helped her out of the chair. She was pale and shaken and seemed unsteady on her feet. He escorted her to the desk where she requested a change of room in a low tone deliberately not looking toward the door out which the press could be seen across the lot clamoring for any crumb of news. The desk clerk tapped computer keys rapidly. Mo had her elbows on the desk her face in her hands. “All we have is the presidential suite, which is considerably more expensive. I’ll need to check with Mr. D’Mario.”