Working in close cooperation with Detective Thomas Barnett of the Bureau of Investigative Services, Chicago Police Department, Katherine Hollinger determined that both Martin Glenn and Will Sterling had been killed by Francis Curry, whose confession had been heard by Barnett and Chicago lawyer Avi Stern before Curry was shot to death in a desperate bid to escape. That was two cases closed for her, which put me on her good side.
Stern, an innocent speculator who happened to be viewing an apartment with Birk when Curry snapped, sustained a gruesome leg injury during the attack but was said to be healing nicely.
Nina Cantor confessed to killing her stepdaughter, Maya, but insisted a fight broke out spontaneously and there was no intent, and an overworked Crown will likely agree to a charge of manslaughter, which means she won't serve serious time. Probably three years of an eight-year sentence, being a first offender. She could be out by the time she's thirty-six, still time to wander into another gym and stretch out in front of some guy who'd welcome the thought of her straddling him-provided she wasn't trying to crush his skull.
It also means I'm three for three with Hollinger. Whether or not she likes being helped, her Super loves it when cases close in bunches. She called the other day to say she'd come and see me on her way home from work, then had to call again later saying she'd be pulling an all-nighter at a dead-end crescent west of the Allen Expressway, a brazen drive-by that left one teen dead and three more wounded, all because their basketball bounced off a passing car after a particularly piss-poor shot.
Hollinger said she'd try again soon.
My mother told me she heard through my brother that Rob Cantor was considering selling his interest in the Harbourview project to a local consortium that included Gordon Avrith.
My brother hasn't called. Or has he?
My mother wants me to see a specialist. "He's the best in the city," she said. "He went to McGill with your cousin Steven-remember Auntie Gertie's son? Finished first in his class. I pulled a lot of strings to get you an appointment. Luckily for you, his wife takes an interest in the Cuban Jewish community and I chaired a fundraising drive last year to send Passover food."
No, my brother didn't call, I'm sure of it now, which means he isn't talking to me. Or maybe it's me that's not talking to him. Either way, neither of us is talking to the other. I would be very surprised if I got any more referrals from him.
Ryan sent in food the first week, and last week he came to see me. We watched a football game-Jets and the Patriots, I think. He had to keep reminding me of the down, the yardage, the score. He showed me some new pictures of his son, Carlo, taken at a fall softball tournament. He'd once told me, back when he was in the killing game, that he never carried a picture of his wife or kid, afraid that someone might follow that trail back to where they lived. Now he can watch his son play; he can take and carry pictures and show them with the pleasure and pride of a dad.
I have to make these headaches go away and get back to work. Marilyn paid us for a full week, and Rob kicked in another week's pay to see me through this slow phase. But it won't last forever. Scary Mary will call and be Scary Mary nice, and Jenn and I will cringe and pass each other the phone. Maybe Jenn will land some new work, log a few hours while I heal. Maybe a simple family matter.
How dangerous can they be?
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High Chicago jg-1 Page 26