Power and Justice

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Power and Justice Page 13

by Peter O'Mahoney


  “Really? I’m a black belt in three martial arts, so let’s see how accurate that statement is.” He slapped Hunter on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, Tex. I thought I’d better brush up on my Queen songs while I waited for you.”

  “But I’m early. You said to meet you at seven o’clock, and I’m ten minutes early.”

  The waitress placed a beer in front of Jones, a smile on her face. “And he’s been ‘waiting’ here for the last two hours.”

  With ripped biceps and scarred knuckles, Jones had been Hunter’s go-to man over the last decade. Slightly unstable, and with ignorance to match, the role of investigator suited him perfectly—from quietly breaking into homes to finding a small piece of information hidden on the internet, Jones flourished in his job about knowing everything about everyone.

  Standing as tall as Hunter, the man with West African heritage dominated most situations through pure intimidation. Tattoos covered his arms, his hair was cropped short, and his shoulders were wide enough to have to turn sideways when he walked through narrow doorways—not the sort of person one would expect to see belting out pop songs at a karaoke bar.

  Though nobody would ask him to stop.

  “Maybe I got my time wrong. And you know how much I love karaoke.” Jones cradled his hands around his IPA like it was pure gold. “I wanted to keep you updated on how I’m going with the Sulzberger file.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Nothing on the wife’s whereabouts. No social media posts, no check-ins, no footage of her car near the start of the two-day hike that she claims she went on. Kim Sulzberger claims to have gone to the Forest Glen Preserve, about a three-hour drive from Downtown, hiking overnight on the River Ridge Trail. So far, I’ve found nothing that verifies her whereabouts. I’ve left a call with the ranger who patrols the area that she hiked, and if she went in there, he would know about it, but he’s on a hiking trek in South America, and won’t get back to me for a couple of weeks.”

  “Just a coincidence, or do you think that she deliberately left her phone behind? Or did she leave it behind at all? Maybe Kim was home the whole time?”

  “I’m not sure.” He grunted. “I’ve heard of psychologists recommending a digital detox to people who are struggling with mental health issues. That’s not unusual, so if that were the case, you wouldn’t expect to see any posts on social media about her trip, or any check-ins. CCTV footage is rare near the start of the trail where she went, so again, that’s not unusual. Most hiking trails are supposed to be an escape from technology.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming?”

  “But there’s no history of mental illness recorded anywhere for Kim. Nothing on her medical file, no mention of anything on social media. I find that suspicious.” Jones sipped his amber liquid, and a smile instantly swept across his face.

  “Robert’s a politician; he might’ve wanted her to keep any mental illnesses quiet for the sake of his job. That sounds reasonable to me. The voters wouldn’t want somebody whose wife is going through a hard time mentally—they want someone whose life appears stable and competent, even if it’s a lie.”

  “I heard once that politicians and diapers should be changed often, and for the same reason.”

  “I didn’t take you for a Mark Twain fan.”

  “Mark Twain? Never heard of him. I read that quote on Facebook,” Jones said, taking a long gulp from his glass.

  “That could have been the killer’s plan—they wanted to roll the dirty politicians out of the game. Change that politician.”

  “Everyone has a plan—until you’re punched in the face.” Jones shrugged.

  “Quoting Mark Twain again?” Hunter smiled.

  “No.” Jones grinned. “Mike Tyson.”

  “You know how to quote the best of them.”

  “But here’s something that I’m sure you will find very interesting.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was watching some of the news coverage that was being broadcast from outside Robert’s family home this morning, and I saw the prosecutor in the media scrum outside the main entrance. Now I wouldn’t usually think anything of it, but she was lurking at the back, almost willing the media to interview her. Look.”

  Jones removed his phone and showed Hunter the YouTube clip on one of the news channels with Michelle Law standing in the background.

  “I suppose that’s not overly unusual. Maybe she was waiting for an interview?” Hunter suggested.

  “That’s not the angle the media wants at the moment. They’ll get to that part of the story, but right now, this is the story of a celebrity war vet that fell apart under too much pressure. Nobody wanted her interview, and she would’ve known that.”

  “Maybe Michelle wanted her face on television.”

  “Maybe.” Jones shrugged. “Maybe she wanted attention.”

  “Or?”

  “Or she wants to know how Robert is doing.”

  Hunter squinted. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that before this case began, Michelle Law, the prosecutor, had made numerous defenses of Robert Sulzberger on Facebook groups. She defended his decision to rezone the area for the stadium on public posts, defended his past, and got into arguments with people about his celebrity status. I was looking through the posts to see if I could find anything nasty, but her name kept coming up in his defense.”

  “Maybe she really wanted the stadium built?”

  “Or this runs deeper.”

  “A coincidence, nothing more.” Hunter shook his head. “I’ve known Michelle for decades. She’s going through a hard time personally. She’s not involved.”

  “Hey, you pay me to investigate, and that’s what I do. I report the facts; you can interpret them however you want. What I’m saying is that you might have an option here. I think you could push her buttons—force her to make a mistake. She’s defended Sulzberger publicly on social media before, so there must be some sort of personal attachment. Exploit it.” Jones threw his hands in the air.

  Both men turned around as a young professional took the microphone and started singing a Beyoncé classic. Jones raised his eyebrows when the man dressed in a dark blue suit started adding moves to his singing. His friend at the bar started clapping along, thoroughly enjoying the performance.

  “What do you want me to do next?” Jones turned back to Hunter.

  “I want you to go and talk to women in bars around the Bronzeville area, especially anyone who might be an escort. Take a photo of our Jane Doe with you and see if anyone has ever seen or heard from her.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Find out if any of them are missing. Show them a photo of the deceased, and see if they recognize her. Could be a lead about who the woman is.”

  “That’s not Robert’s council ward though? Do you think he’d drive out there to meet these girls? There would be closer areas that he could go.”

  “You’re right; it’s not his council ward,” Hunter stated, finishing his drink. “It’s Cindy Mendel’s.”

  Chapter 23

  Tonight was her night.

  Her chance.

  Her moment to finally end the stress. To see what was beyond her anxiety. To feel what it was like to live without the fear that she might be uncovered for who she was.

  Her escape.

  Robert’s face was splashed all over the papers, another story, another angle, another headline about his case, followed by an arrogant smile in the coffee shop. She was surprised that the defense lawyer was still letting him go out in public, and even more surprised that he hadn’t even tried to hide his identity. She couldn’t believe that even as he faced the first-degree murder charges, he was still smiling. And smugly.

  After she read that he went out for coffee three days ago, she waited outside his temporary apartment, nestled in the café across the road. When he left the building, she followed him down the street for three blocks. Even as she’d walked behind him, he hadn’t
recognized her under her baseball cap, sunglasses, and a baggy sweater.

  She was always good at disguises. She’d loved to play dress up when she was young, and she still thrived on it. Some days, when she didn’t like what she saw in the mirror, she disguised herself as someone else and spent the day pretending to be a foreign traveler at tourist hotspots. Her Russian accent was getting better by the week.

  She’d watched from half a block back as he walked into the bar. She was surprised the bar was already open considering it was only 9 a.m. on a Sunday.

  She understood why he went in there though.

  She needed her first drink at seven every morning, just before her Soul Cycle Class. The taste of vodka was the only thing that got her out of bed. It was the highlight of her morning. The sting of hard alcohol filled her mind with dopamine, cracked a smile on her face when she desperately needed it.

  She tried to hide it in many ways.

  First, it was in her water bottle, a few drops of vodka as she walked around her office building after her workout.

  Now she had sewn a small pocket into the inside of her three favorite handbags. All she needed to do was go into the bathroom at 9 a.m., take a small swig, and then her day could continue.

  It was hard when every day seemed the same; when every day blended into the next.

  She needed a little push, a little bit of excitement.

  Without it, the days seemed useless.

  She had thought about tonight so much—how much she would be giving up if she pulled the trigger. Would she even be giving up anything? Life on the inside couldn’t be much harder than it was for her now. Things couldn’t get much worse.

  Perhaps if they caught her, life would be better?

  She had always liked discipline and routine, and prison would bring that to her. Or life on the run. Fly to South America, perhaps Peru or Chile, and live her days drenched in tequila, sunning herself on the beach.

  But she deeply feared that this was the best life had to give, that this was heaven on earth. Here, she had luxuries, gifts, everything she’d ever dreamed of, but it meant nothing. Not the new couch, not the nice car, not the expensive watch. None of it made her happy.

  But she needed it all.

  She needed the goods that she so desperately wanted to trash. They were her identity.

  Without her purchases, without her material goods, without the ability to spend, she was left with nothing but herself.

  And she didn’t like that one bit.

  Robert had to go. That was her only choice now. If he were found not guilty by the court, then the Chicago PD would be forced to review the case, and more than likely find evidence that she was the perpetrator. She was sure she left something for them to find. She was sloppy, but then, she hadn’t expected that the girl would die.

  She’d be cleaner this time.

  Leave no trace. No evidence.

  Robert’s temporary apartment building was bland, a deliberate choice by the defense lawyer. If Robert were going to be stalked by the media, he wanted the pictures to be taken outside somewhere average, somewhere that could inspire a level of empathy from the public.

  Robert had reentered the apartment at 8 p.m. He had two six packs under his arms, and he’d been in there ever since. For the last hour, after the café closed, she’d staked out the apartment from the back seat of her rental car, parked across the street, studying every person that had entered and left the building. She was going to wait until later, perhaps midnight, but if he were drinking those beers quickly, then he’d be passed out soon. She didn’t want that. She wanted him to be awake. To see her face before she killed him.

  She had to move.

  Now.

  The building had a small foyer, just big enough for a small, unattended desk, an indoor plant, and the access to two elevators. To the side of the elevators was the door she wanted, the one marked ‘Fire Escape’. After she left the car, with her head down, covered underneath a new black wig, she looked at her phone while she waited for a resident to exit the front doors. Once they did, she slipped in the open doors behind them.

  She walked to the fire escape, opened the door, and was immediately hit by the musky smell. She had three options from there—an alarmed door to the street, stairs to the basement parking lot, or stairs up to the apartments above her. The cracked walls and broken lighting only added to the beats of her already pumping heart rate.

  Bathed in dull light, she crept into the stairwell that led to his apartment door, her steps barely making a sound.

  She planned to call him on the phone and tell him to come to the stairwell. It was exposed, but it was empty.

  That was where she’d make her move. That was where she’d try to choke him. Just in case, she had her new weapon in her purse.

  She’d studied the plans for the building the day before, calling the security company that managed it, reporting that the cameras in the fire escape were broken. They promptly told her that there was no monitoring in the stairwell and that she must have the wrong address. She’d agreed before ending the call.

  She scanned upwards through the gap in the stairwell, ensuring there were no movements above her.

  Nothing.

  She was safe to keep moving.

  The first flight of stairs was empty. The light was flickering in and out of use, on its way to the end of its life.

  There were stains on the stairs. Lots of them. Maybe water stains. Maybe liquid. Maybe something more sinister. She couldn’t be sure.

  She rested her gloved hand on the railing that led upstairs. She was still fit, but her heart rate was pounding.

  Second flight of stairs.

  Closer.

  Closer to her destination, her target, her fate. She had to do this. She had to make him pay. She felt that deep inside of her. Stronger than anything she had felt in years.

  He had become her passion.

  Third flight of stairs.

  She was there. His temporary home. At the heavy door that kept her shut out of the apartment floor where her target was waiting. With movements slow enough to deaden any noise, she pushed forward.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she pried the door open.

  With the door half open, her breathing became faster and faster.

  “I can do this,” she whispered and turned back to gaze at her escape, tapping on her chest to instill belief. “Tonight, everything changes. Tonight, Robert pays for what he did.”

  With a pounding heart, she took her phone out of her bag to make the call.

  Crack.

  A noise. Above. In the stairwell. A potential witness.

  No.

  Her heart rate shot up.

  Muscles clenched.

  She turned.

  Ran.

  Away from the open door.

  Back down the steps.

  Without concern for the sound, she slammed the fire escape door shut, sprinted through the foyer to her car, and roared the engine to life. Back to the safety of what she knew.

  She fled, gripping the steering wheel tight, hoping for the best.

  When she was under the safety of darkness, she stopped the car and stared at the rearview mirror.

  Waiting.

  The noise hadn’t followed her.

  Here, in her car, she was safe from the outside world.

  Tonight, Robert had been lucky.

  He’d survived.

  But she’d make sure that his luck didn’t last.

  Chapter 24

  As Hunter pulled his black BMW sedan into the parking lot below his office building, he noticed the figure lurking in the shadows. He knew that figure, but he hadn’t seen him for over a year.

  Hunter stepped out of the car, staring at the man coming towards him, walking into the underground lot before the automatic metal door closed. “Max? Is that you?”

  “Uncle T.” The boy spoke quietly, subdued in dim light. “I need some work.”

  “Are you okay? Where have you bee
n?” Hunter went closer to him.

  “I need some work, man. I can’t do all this other stuff. I can’t deal with the emotion. I just…” Max looked around the half-empty lot. “I need money, and I want to work for it.”

  “I have to tell your father that you’re here.” Hunter reached for his phone. “Your father is worried about you. He needs to know that you’re doing okay.”

  “Not yet.” Max held out his hand, hushing his uncle.

  Slowly, Hunter put the phone back into his pocket.

  “Uncle T, I checked into the police department earlier this month. Patrick would have known that. I asked them to call him.”

  “You’re calling him Patrick now? You’re not even going to call him Dad?”

  “I thought that out of everyone you’d understand.” Max shook his head. “It’s our family; you know how it is. Nothing is ever easy with our family.”

  Hunter stood silent.

  Max scratched the inside of his arm.

  In the shadows of the parking lot, it was hard to see Max’s face, shrouded under his hood, which covered a baseball cap. The lot was half-full, but the foot traffic was at a minimum. The street above them echoed noise through the space, creating a sense of activity, but around them, there was nothing. For a parking lot, it was clean, almost too clean, barely even a tire mark on the ground. The lines had been recently repainted, the numbers on the parking bays squeaking if someone drove over one.

  “What are you doing here, Max?” Hunter stepped forward.

  “Remember how you always said that we were family, and no matter what happened you would always have my back?”

  “Always.”

  “I need your help. I need some work. That’s all I want.” Max rubbed the indent of his elbow under his sleeve again, his eyes staring towards the ground. “I want to work for money. I don’t want you to just give it to me. I want to work for it.”

  Hunter nodded to Max’s arm. “Still using?”

 

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