Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  Cummings tossed his tools into his toolbox. “I hate to say it, but you don’t think it could be one of the people we’ve been feeding and housing?”

  I shrugged. “Anyone in particular?”

  “I don’t know their names, but one stands out. Big guy. He wore an old Army jacket all year round, no matter the weather. Talked to himself. Came and went as he pleased, wouldn’t let anybody near him. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, though. Maybe he’s moved on.”

  I dug into my pocket for one of my cards, handed it to him. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else that might be helpful, I’d appreciate a call, day or night.”

  Cummings read the card. “Sure, no problem. And you let me know if I can help you, okay? We have to get this guy.”

  “I will.” I turned to leave, then stopped. “Did you and your wife hear the sirens the night of the murders?”

  He shook his head. “I had my place soundproofed years ago, had to with all the loud music playing and motorcycles revving at all hours. We slept right through it.”

  I nodded. “Thanks again.”

  We. I headed back to the car, thinking of Lillian Gibson’s account. She said she saw Janice Cummings and her daughter leaving with luggage more than a week ago. Had Gibson remembered the details incorrectly? Had Cummings misspoken? I glanced back at him as I pulled away. He’d gone back to working on the van. I wondered which one was telling the truth.

  Chapter 9

  I still had friends in the department. It took a few calls, but I got an address for Maisie Ross and headed over. Even if Thea hadn’t mentioned her, Maisie definitely would have been on my short list because of all her run-ins with Pop. She’d opened another store west of the Dan Ryan, well out of Pop’s parish, but not off his radar. Months ago, he’d mentioned getting a group together for a new assault to shut her down again. He wanted her out of business and away from kids, and there was no distance he wouldn’t travel to make that happen. If I had to answer the question—who in the world would kill a priest?—a woman who steals Bibles and sells drugs to children is definitely at the top of the list.

  Sitting in my car, curbside, I could see her store was closed. Rusted bars fronted a grimy door and even grimier windows. The plastic clock face on the front sign was missing its hands, so I had no idea when the store would open—maybe noon, maybe midnight. I checked my watch. It was just after eleven. Nearly lunchtime, if I’d had an appetite.

  Ross lived in apartment 2B above her business. I glanced up at the second story, staring at ripped window blinds in the apartment facing the corner, wondering if it was hers, trying to decide whether to go up or wait.

  I scanned the block, watching as a CTA bus lumbered up to the corner and stopped. Squares of cardboard bordered in duct tape stood for window glass in many of the nearby storefronts, vandals or wayward bullets most likely the cause. There was no grass anywhere, just patches of parched, naked earth that got water only when it rained. Maisie Ross couldn’t have found a more depressing spot to hang out a shingle.

  There was no lock in the front door to Ross’s building, only an empty circle where the hardware used to sit. I pushed the door open, and it swung back lazily. No lock, loose hinges. The vestibule reeked of reefer and fast-food, and the mailboxes had been ripped from the wall, leaving only the metal recesses stuffed with discarded potato chip bags and flattened McDonald’s cups. I wondered where the mailman put the mail.

  The inner door should have had a door-length plate of glass in it, but there was nothing there but a gaping hole. I stuck my arm through to the other side, wiggled my fingers.Then, for the heck of it, I tried the knob. The door was locked. As I stood there wondering what sense it made to lock a glass door with no glass in it, a lanky teenager came barreling down the stairs and stepped straight through the gap without a moment’s hesitation.

  He scowled, taking a long survey of me. “You got to be lost.”

  “I’m not. I’m looking for Maisie Ross. You know her?”

  “Nope.”

  “Upstairs. 2B. You just came from up there.”

  “Nope.”

  He eased through the door headed for the street. He could have been one of Maisie’s kids, for all I knew, but no one talks to cops or ex-cops, and there was no law written that compelled them to talk to PIs. We’re always on the outside looking in, until someone needs us.

  I pressed the bell for 2B, expecting a buzz, but got nothing. I sighed and stepped gingerly through the gap, taking the sticky stairs two at a time. No one answered Ross’s door after several hard knocks. I knocked again. Again, no answer, but this time the door across the hall opened.

  An old woman peered out of 2C. She’d opened her door just a smidgen, the security chain still on.

  “They ain’t home,” she said. She spoke to me through the crack. I could see one brown eye, one wrinkled cheek, and half a head of blue hair. “Who you looking for?”

  “Mrs. Ross,” I said. “Maisie Ross? Do you expect her soon?”

  “She ain’t no Missus,” the woman said, frowning, though I could only see half the expression. “And I don’t know as I expect her at all. My business is over here, not over there.” She stared at me suspiciously. “You from the welfare?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s a personal matter.”

  She paused to assess. “You don’t exactly look like you could have personal business with old Maisie. You look like you’re an educated woman with steady work. Old Maisie’s about as banged up as a ten-cent can of sauerkraut. Two different worlds, I’d say.”

  I would have handed her one of my business cards, but truthfully, the less Maisie Ross and her band of crime-prone misfits knew about me, the better I liked it.

  “When does the store open?”

  The old woman snorted. “Whenever the spirit strikes. It ain’t like Macy’s.”

  “I heard some folks were trying to shut it down,” I said casually. Apparently, 2C knew a lot about Maisie’s business, which could work out well for me.

  “Yeah, somebody sent flyers around, and she was fit to be tied, let me tell you. You wouldn’t believe the cussing and banging coming out of that apartment. I’m a Christian woman and that mess sent me straight to the Good Book. But, like I said, I keep to my side of the hall.”

  “It got loud, huh?”

  The woman rolled an eye. “Did it? It was all, ‘He’s at it again!’ this and ‘That meddling SOB’ that. Whoever the SOB is, ole Maisie’s got no love for him, that’s for sure.”

  Pop, I thought. That’s who Maisie had no love for, but was she angry enough to kill him? People killed for all kinds of reasons. It wouldn’t surprise me that Maisie would kill to keep her store running, but would she have done it herself? Had she gotten one of her thug friends or relatives to do it for her? And where did the Hispanic boy fit in?

  “Was Maisie home two nights ago?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t tell you; I sleep like the dead. But I know she keeps all hours. She comes and goes as regular as planes at O’Hare, that one.”

  “She has a son. When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Her brown eye widened in shock and the door slammed shut. I’d asked one question too many, and she was suddenly done talking. Or maybe I’d asked the wrong question. Maisie was a bad apple, her son was, too. Maybe he’d taken it upon himself to come to his mother’s defense?

  “Thanks for your help,” I said through the door. “Why don’t I just come back then?”

  “I wouldn’t,” she called back. “But if you’re just bound and determined to, you might want to bring somebody bigger than you back with you. After dark, Maisie’s ain’t no place for a woman alone.”

  * * *

  I came back the next morning, and the store was open. Through the window, I could see Maisie manning the register. I recognized her from all the sit-ins and marches Pop had organized in front of her old place. She couldn’t have been much older than forty, but she looked twice that—well-used, grizzled and f
linty, the result of a lot of hard living. I walked in to find her holding court behind a counter crowded with candy and cigarette lighters, chips and air fresheners, mini flashlights, and bottles of Glue Be Gone. “Hello, Maisie.”

  She turned to face me, straggly hair extensions in an unnatural shade of clown red hanging from her pinhead. The gap-toothed smile on her face melted away, replaced by a virulent sneer, followed close behind by an aggrieved groan. “I don’t wait on cops in here. Read the sign.” She pointed to a small hand-lettered sign sitting on a shelf behind her. Propped up against a dusty display of five-hour energy drinks, it read simply: NO COPS. NO SOLICITING. NO DOGS. NO EXCEPTIONS.

  I was a cop the last time we saw each other, but I didn’t see the need to correct her now. Let her believe I had the full weight of the Chicago Police Department behind me. And, though I was no longer on the job, I still took offense at the sign. I smiled, though it was the last thing I felt like doing. What I felt like doing got folks five to ten in state prison. I walked up to the counter, aware that there were others in the store watching. “It’s been a long time.”

  Her lips curled back like a mangy dog’s. “Not long enough. I got nothing for you.”

  I placed my hands palms down on the counter, mainly to keep from wrapping them around Maisie’s throat. I drew in a breath and dove in. “Father Heaton was killed. I’m sure you’ve heard by now. You two weren’t exactly on good terms. I’d like to know where you and your son were when he was killed.”

  She smirked. “You don’t hear so good, do you? I said I got nothing for you.” She slid a glance toward the others in the store. Playing to the crowd, she leaned over the counter, her throat dangerously close to my hands. “Now get going before I call my lawyers and sue for harassment. I know my rights.”

  “You should. You’ve certainly had them read to you enough. When was the last time you saw Father Heaton?” I didn’t expect her to answer. Maisie Ross had been in and out of the system her entire life. She ate intimidation for breakfast. You could probably waterboard her, and she’d come up from the bucket defiant as all get-out.

  Her feral eyes narrowed, and her lips clamped shut. I stood there staring at her, wondering how she got through a day in her skin. If I’d still had my star, I’d have marched her off to the station by now. Without it, here I stood staring at her, wondering if she had it in her to kill a priest and then come to work the next day as though nothing had happened.

  “Your son around?”

  “I got nothing to say.”

  “Me knowing your whereabouts when a man you hated is murdered is kind of important. If you won’t tell me, then . . .” I spotted a worn Bible with a red cover on the shelf behind Maisie’s left shoulder, the initials RMH embossed in gold down the spine. RMH—Raymond Martin Heaton. Pop. I turned back to Maisie. No smile this time, only contempt. My palms came off the counter. “That Bible doesn’t belong to you.”

  She began to laugh. “Says who?”

  My body smoldered as though I might actually combust and take the entire store down with me. “It was stolen from Father Heaton’s rectory.”

  She jabbed a nicotine-stained finger at the book. “He gave it to me, and you can’t prove different. So unless you got a warrant in your pocket, you can just get the hell out of my place!”

  The few patrons milling about the dirty business heard the words “cop” and “warrant” and quickly hustled out and scattered, leaving just the two of us.

  I smiled. “Your customers don’t like cops?”

  “Hell, I don’t like cops! And I like any cop-friend of that trouble-making priest even less!”

  “You called him after you took it to gloat and rub his face in it. They recorded the calls, Maisie. That proves it was you.” Her eyes widened. There were no such recordings, but she didn’t have to know that. The lie was leverage, the only leverage I had, but it still might not work. Maisie didn’t spook easily. She lived her life playing the angles. “So, where were you and your son? Or would you like another chance to hear your rights read to you?”

  She laughed, but she seemed slightly less confident about it this time. “I say he gave it to me. It stays put. I like knowing I got it. Kinda like a trophy. Besides, I figure he owes me that and more for what he did to me and mine.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her chin out in an act of childish defiance. “Now, do I call my lawyer, or are you getting out of here?”

  If I moved around the counter and snatched the book from her, that was theft, and I jeopardized my license. If I slid across the counter and tackled her to the ground, same result. I’d have to bide my time, wear her down.

  I shrugged. “I’ll wait. Word about me has probably gotten around the block by now. Me sitting out front is bound to discourage a few of your regulars from conducting their usual shady business.”

  Maisie lifted a bat from behind the register, slammed it down on the counter. “I ain’t scared of no cop.”

  I smiled, eyed the bat. “I can see that.” I turned and headed for the door. “Have a profitable day, Maisie.”

  I sat in my car at the curb watching Maisie through her window. No one went in. I honked a couple times and waved at her when she turned my way. She answered with her middle finger. I kept an eye out for her son. He’d be in his early twenties about now. I couldn’t remember his name. If he was bold enough to kill Pop to defend his mother’s interests, he wouldn’t be above taking a swipe at me sitting at the curb, but hours went by and nothing happened. A few hours into my sit-in, a police cruiser rolled up. Maisie had called the law, which was rich when you thought about it. Here was a woman who likely hadn’t done a legal thing in her entire life, calling the police to report being harassed. I slid a glance toward Maisie’s window. She was watching. The cop riding shotgun rolled down his window. I rolled mine down, too.

  “You on the job?” he asked. He was a big man who barely fit in the cruiser, more fat than muscle.

  “Retired,” I said. “PI now.” I held up my license for him to see.

  “Lady says different.”

  His partner peered over at me, sizing me up. I glanced back at Maisie. She grinned triumphantly, having sicced the cops on me. She really was a stupid woman. I smiled and waved at her, then turned back to the cops. “Lady’s nuts,” I said.

  “So, what’s going on?”

  “I’m wearing out my welcome. The store owner, Maisie Ross, took something that didn’t belong to her. I asked her to return it no questions asked. She told me where to get off and then brandished a bat. Now I’m sitting here hoping to weigh on her conscience.”

  The cops laughed in unison. “What’d she take?”

  “A Bible . . . and she took it from a priest.”

  Both cops grimaced. It was gratifying to know I wasn’t the only one who thought the crime particularly uncivilized. Some things you just didn’t do. Apparently, Maisie hadn’t learned that lesson.

  “Hey, I remember you,” the cop in the driver’s seat said. “You’re Mickerson’s old partner. I worked with him once. I’m Bo Kleist.”

  “Vince Turner,” shotgun offered with a friendly wave.

  “Nice to meet you guys.”

  Turner said, “Lady says you’re stalking her and turning business away.”

  “She sells alcohol to minors and steals from priests. I’m proud to turn her business away.”

  “Want us to go in there and get it?” Kleist asked.

  “It’s my fight. I want to break her.”

  “You plan on sitting here long?”

  “Public street. Legal spot. I figure till closing time today.”

  “Then what?” asked Turner.

  I smiled. “Back tomorrow.”

  The window to the cruiser rolled up, and I could see the two conferring. I blew Maisie a kiss; she shook her bat at me. Moments later the cop window rolled down again.

  “You sure it’s the priest’s Bible?” Turner asked.

  “It’s got his initials on it. RMH. Father
Ray Heaton.”

  “Heaton? That’s the priest caught up in that break-in?”

  I nodded. “I’m a friend of his. That Bible was a gift from his mother. I want it back. More importantly, I don’t want her to have it.”

  The cops exchanged a look.

  “All right,” Kleist said. “Keep your eyes open. This isn’t Main Street Mayberry you’re sitting on. We’ll swing by on the regular to give you some cover.” He slid his CPD business card out of the window. “You need anything sooner, call.”

  I propped the card up against my dashboard. “Thanks, guys.”

  “Tell Mickerson he still owes me fifty on that Bears game,” Kleist said.

  I chuckled. “Hate to tell you, but you’ll grow old waiting for it. Ben’s a double-or-nothing kind of guy.”

  He grinned. “Figured as much.”

  The cruiser eased off and disappeared around the corner. Maisie looked disappointed I wasn’t going to jail. I waved again, and she turned her back to me. I notched my seat back to recline and propped my legs up on the dash, next to Kleist’s card. Cozy as anything, there I sat watching Maisie watch me until she closed up the store at midnight. I got out of the car and watched as she locked up and toddled off to her apartment.

  “Where were you when Father Heaton got killed, Maisie?” I called out to her.

  She glared at me. “Minding my own business!”

  “Want to hand over the Bible now?”

  “Go to hell!” she yelled back.

  When the lights to her apartment flicked on, I got back in the car and drove away. I didn’t know why people were always telling me to go to hell, but the sentiment didn’t worry me much. Hell was as good a place as any.

  Chapter 10

  True to my word, I was back the next day. The store was open, and Maisie stood behind the counter with no one to wait on. I brought along a couple of donuts and a big bag of McDonald’s goodies for lunch. I ate the donuts while reading the paper on my phone. I also brought a couple of books and snacks for when the donuts wore off. In between eating and watching, I studied the street, making sure no one snuck up on me. Nobody Maisie knew would be averse to smashing my windows in, slashing my tires, or worse. My gun was within reach, but I didn’t want to have to use it.