Samberch said, “See, we have a problem with your dead guy. First, he had no wallet on him, no ID, nothing. Now that’s not so unusual. If he came here to ice you, he’d leave his ID at home in case something went wrong, right?”
“Sure,” I said.
“But then we look at his clothes. No manufacturer’s labels. None. Not even laundry marks.”
“So he cut the tags off.”
“Wrong. They never had tags to begin with. Custom made, no tags, no manufacturer’s mark. Same with his shoes. Even his belt.” Samberch opened a bag and brought out the dead man’s diving watch, handed it to me. “Look at that.”
It was a high-quality watch with substantial weight, precision fit and finish. Unidirectional ratcheted bezel and automatic movement. I examined the face, the crown, turned the watch over and inspected the back. A very high-quality watch, but not a mark on it to identify the manufacturer. Sterile.
I’d never seen a sterile watch but I’d read about them in books. My blood ran cold and the room began to close in on me.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“You got it. And it’s the same thing with the knife.” Samberch took the watch and put it back in the bag, drank some coffee. “Only time I’ve seen a watch like that was Vietnam. Standard issue to black-ops CIA guys. Right?”
“Yeah, but not just CIA. From what I’ve read, all sorts of covert intelligence guys get them. And not just American.”
“Guy have a foreign accent?”
“No. Sounded like a TV anchorman. Had that nondescript, nonregional American accent.”
“So not a Chicago guy, either.”
“Not unless he purposely got rid of the accent.”
“You can understand how little pleased I am about this,” said Samberch, tapping the evidence bag with his index finger.
I met his eyes. “Doesn’t please me a great deal, either.”
“I’m sure.”
“Did he have any identifying scars or tattoos?”
“From the neck up there’s not a lot we can say, for obvious reasons. His body is clean. We’ll run his prints, see if we get a hit. We’ll get his face from the security video. In the meantime, I suggest you give some thought to motive. You may not know who he is but you can make a list—members of your fan club who might send a guy like this.”
I considered asking him if he wanted me to include city employees—both current and those serving time—on my list, but I decided to keep my trap shut. We’d just met, but so far I liked Samberch and I figured him for a right guy. There was no percentage in acting like a wiseass.
Someone behind me caught the captain’s attention. He stood and walked over to the bar area, where a laptop computer had been set up. I started to follow but he held his hand up.
“Stay seated, Dudgeon. You don’t get to see this.”
So I waited while Samberch and Oliva and a bunch of other cops watched various streams of security video on the laptop computer. I drank the rest of my coffee and someone refilled my mug and I drank that, too, and smoked another cigarette, and thought about how I’d screwed up.
The car rental kid didn’t know where I’d parked my car, so he couldn’t have dropped a dime on me. And no one had followed me from Amy’s house to my office. So the dead guy had picked me up when I left my office. When I was busy worrying about Amy’s suspicions, busy feeling rejected. Put simply, I’d allowed myself to become distracted and I’d made myself an easy target. Same thing in the garage.
Damn, that was bush league, Dudgeon. A major malfunction. And after lecturing Jill about paying attention to her surroundings? Way to go, man. Way to set an example. You better smarten up, get your head in the game…
I cut the self-flagellation and focused on the facts. The guy who came after me was not some run-of-the-mill hit man. A hit man would’ve just come from behind and popped a couple of small-caliber bullets into the back of my head. This was different. So I doubted that this guy had anything to do with my past sins. It seemed obvious that his attack was related to the Joan Richmond case, but assuming that the obvious is true can get you in a lot of trouble.
And then there was the nagging feeling that he just wasn’t a Hawk River kind of guy. Holborn had warned me that intuition is a fickle guide, which is true. But it’s not something to ignore, either. And mine told me that this guy had a lot more in common with those two maybe-DHS guys than he did with Joseph Grant and Blake Sten.
Samberch and Oliva returned to the table.
Samberch said, “Good thing for you this happened where it did. The whole place was covered. You were never off-camera.”
“So I’m in the clear?”
“Looks that way.”
“Thanks.”
“One thing. What was that at the end, as he was falling…you try to catch him?”
I didn’t have an answer.
I said what would make sense to him. “I wanted to question the guy, find out who he was working for.”
He nodded. “Hang tight awhile, we’ll see about your gun.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and Goo-Goo?”
“Yeah?”
“You plan to get chased by guys like that, you ought to give up smoking.” Samberch turned and walked out into the mall.
Oliva handed me my book, said, “Yours?”
“Thanks.”
“It’ll keep you occupied while we finish our work.” But he didn’t leave, just stood there looking down at me. He gestured toward the book. “My brother’s over there.”
“Iraq?”
“Fourth tour. It’s a bad war.”
“It’s a war,” I said. “Wars are bad.”
He shook his head. “Afghanistan is a right war. Iraq is a wrong war. Makes a difference.”
“I’m not much into politics,” I said.
“Yeah. You think it’s about oil?”
“Maybe.”
“I think it’s about oil.” Detective Oliva was a man carrying a heavy load. He said, “The guy who came after you…”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you’re working on…got anything to do with this?” He gestured to the book again.
“No.”
Oliva looked disappointed. “All right. I’ll see you later.” He turned to go.
“Detective.”
“Yeah?”
“Hope your brother gets home safe.”
“Me, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was past 8:00 when I pulled out of the garage and onto Walton. My gun was back on my hip and the police had released me without charge. That was the good news.
The bad news was everything else.
I turned my phone on and called Vince on speed-dial.
He answered with “Shit, you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You’re all over the fuckin’ radio, is why. I left you four messages. They say you tossed some guy off a sixth-floor balcony.”
“Call you back.” I pulled to the curb and turned on the radio.
“…identity of the assailant is still unknown. More details after the break.” I lowered the volume as some guy started barking about how much better my life would be if I covered my house with vinyl siding from Amazing Siding. Even if I had a house, I didn’t see how vinyl siding could help me right now.
My phone rang. It was Terry.
I said hello and Terry said, “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m all right, thanks. Call you back in five.” I hung up.
The phone rang again.
“Yeah.”
“Ray Dudgeon?”
“Yes.”
“Hi Ray, it’s Judy Bobalik, Channel 2 News…”
“Oh Christ.”
“Sorry. I know it’s been a long day but you’re the lead at ten.”
“Lucky me.”
“Hey, I’m just doing my job. We’re shooting a stand-up in front of 900 North. Can you drop by and give us an on-camera?” The radio finished selling me stuff a
nd the news came back on.
“Judy, I’m sorry, I gotta go.” I hung up.
“Our top story at this hour—Death on the Mag Mile. Nine Hundred North Michigan Avenue was the scene of a dramatic foot chase this afternoon, ending in the death of a man the police are still trying to identify.” A disinterested cop voice came on, reading a statement. “Just before one o’clock this afternoon, local private detective Ray Dudgeon was assaulted by a man with a knife in the parking garage of 900 North Michigan Avenue. He fled into the shopping mall and the assailant followed, chasing Mr. Dudgeon up the escalators and causing minor injuries to two bystanders. The assailant caught Mr. Dudgeon on Level 6 of the atrium. Mr. Dudgeon knocked him over the guardrail and he was killed on impact with the floor. For now, the deceased is a John Doe. We are working to establish his identity. Thank you, that’s all I have at this time.”
A reporter barked a question about the extent of my injury. “Mr. Dudgeon sustained a cut to his left arm requiring stitches. He was treated at the scene and released.” Another question, about the motive for the attack. “Still under investigation. That’s all I have at this time. Now if you’ll excuse me….”
My phone rang again and I flicked the radio off. The call display said it was coming from Isaac Richmond. The guy who got me into this mess. I let it go to voice mail.
After a minute, I checked my voice mail. Eighteen messages. The four from Vince, plus three from Terry. One from Sasha Klukoff, reporting that he’d found a potential buyer for my Shelby. And Special Agent Holborn left a message saying that he couldn’t be reached after six, but to call him tomorrow before noon. The next eight messages were from reporters, all looking for a quote about the day’s top local story. WGN was leading its nine o’clock broadcast with it and it was the lead for all the ten o’clocks, too. The local papers and radio stations also wanted in on the act.
Throw a guy off a balcony, and the whole world wants to talk to you.
The last message was from Isaac Richmond, who implored me to call back ASAP. Yeah, right. I’d call him tomorrow if I felt like it.
I deleted the messages, thinking There’s no way Jill won’t learn of this.
After Vince told me about the engagement ring, I’d had the crazy idea to show up at her door with protestations of love and proposals of marriage. My ring wouldn’t be any match for Dr. Glassman’s, but the tears in Jill’s eyes when I last saw her told me that her love for me wasn’t dead. On life support perhaps, but not dead.
And now this. Maybe I should call her now, before she hears about it on the news…
I called Vince instead.
“You hear it?” said Vince.
“I heard it. How’s it going there?”
“Fine. The Chinese babe peeks out at me through her curtains every hour or so. Nobody else around. Just regular activity. I’ve patrolled the surrounding blocks a few times, at random intervals like you showed me. I’m the only one out here. No bad guys yet.”
“All right. How long are you good for?”
“I can go ’til morning, easy,” said Vince.
“You sure?”
“No problem. I stocked up for an all-nighter just in case.”
“Okay, if anything happens or if you start falling asleep, call my cell. Otherwise, I’ll be there to relieve you in the morning.”
I hung up and called Terry and he asked me again if I was all right. I reassured him that I was fine.
“I take it this was related to the Joan Richmond thing,” said Terry.
Only a fool ever tells a reporter anything off the record but when that reporter is your best friend, the term actually means what it says. Between Terry and me, it is a blood oath.
“Think so,” I said. “But I have no actual knowledge. And I suspect he was working for someone other than Hawk River, but that’s also speculation.”
“Based on?”
“I don’t know, call it a hunch. You know anything about a CPD captain named Samberch?”
“Samberch…One of the good guys, from what I hear.”
“That was my impression, too. How about a Detective Oliva?”
“Never heard the name,” said Terry. “Want me to ask around?”
“That’s okay, I was just asking.” I cranked open the window and lit a cigarette. “Got any news for me?”
“Actually, yeah. An update on the committee hearings. You remember Bill Combes, worked city council when you were at the Chronicle?”
“I remember Bill. Nice guy. Parrothead. Scuba diver.”
“That’s him. He covers the Hill for Reuters now. Anyway he’s got a source. An aide to some congressman on the OGR committee. Says the hearings are in free fall. Everybody’s playing it cool but it’s starting to look like Joan Richmond was the star witness. They don’t have much else, and they’re beginning to look a little foolish.”
“I assume Hawk River’s lawyers are now yelling partisan witch hunt.”
“We’re still at fishing expedition. But if the committee doesn’t produce something resembling a smoking gun pretty soon…”
“I’ve got diddly,” I said. There was no reason to bring up Malibu Man. All he told us was that Hawk River was nervous. And we already knew that.
Terry cleared his throat and said, “Listen…you know I gotta ask you for a quote about today…”
“Sure.” I tried to think of something. Whatever I said next would run in the next morning’s Chronicle, and would no doubt be read by the dead guy’s employers. It was an opportunity to send a message. I auditioned various statements in my head but none seemed right. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I became.
“Ray?”
“Hold on, I’m thinking.”
What do you say to the men who just sent an assassin into your life? I’ll be a good boy, please don’t send another? How about, Eat shit and die, motherfuckers? Somehow neither seemed appropriate.
“Got your pen?”
“Shoot.”
“I have some advice for the people responsible for today’s attempt on my life. Next time, send someone who can fly.”
After a few seconds of silence, Terry said, “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Well, not completely,” I said.
“I can’t print that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel like being responsible for your untimely demise, you idiot.”
I stubbed my half-smoked cigarette out in the car’s little ashtray. “I got lucky today, Terry. Only reason I’m still breathing. If I hadn’t had a steaming coffee in my hand…the guy was way better than me—I never would’ve gotten to my gun in time.”
“And how does rubbing their noses in it improve your chances next time?”
“It probably doesn’t. But it tells them that I’m more angry than afraid.” I could picture the meeting: the decision maker who sent the assassin being grilled by his superiors. If they started questioning previous assumptions…if they paused to rethink strategy…it just might help me.
Or maybe I was rationalizing.
“Are you more angry than afraid?” said Terry.
“Not by a long shot,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mausoleums and gravestones appeared and disappeared as the beam of my headlights swept the grounds of Mount Pleasant Cemetery. I parked next to the small stone building that served as the head groundskeeper’s residence and rang the doorbell.
Gravedigger Peace opened the door and shook my hand. He greeted me with his familiar crooked smile, but the smile looked a little forced and his face looked gaunt. He wore a baggy T-shirt with CHICAGO GREEN—a fast-rising local band—silk-screened on the chest.
Gravedigger led me inside and I sat on the couch in the living area while he went to the fridge and pulled out a couple of beer bottles. There was an open bottle of bourbon on the coffee table in front of me and a half-filled rocks glass next to the bottle.
He got another glass from a cupboard, sat across f
rom me, put the glass on the table, and handed me one of the beers. I poured some bourbon into the empty glass but didn’t pick it up. Drank some beer instead.
I looked him over. We’d gotten together a few times during the summer but I hadn’t seen him since July. I guessed he’d lost maybe ten pounds. He had never carried extra weight, was always muscular and compact, and had always seemed taller than he was. But with the added weight loss, he looked small. Still strong, but underfed. And he looked older.
He still hadn’t said anything, and small talk would be an insult. I said, “You’re looking thin, Gravedigger. No dishes in the drying rack, no cooking smells.” I nodded at the bourbon bottle. “So I’m guessing that you’ve been drinking your dinner recently.” Nothing in my tone but the concern of an old friend.
“You don’t miss much,” said Gravedigger. “If I ever need a detective, you got the job.”
Gravedigger’s eyes glistened and they were red around the rims. He wasn’t slurring drunk but just drunk enough, and staying that way for a while, the way a drinker sometimes does. Maintenance drinking is what I call it when I do it, which isn’t as often as it once was but probably still more often than it should be.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Shit. Heavy shit.”
Gravedigger and I had known each other since we were in diapers. As children, we lived on the same block, went to the same schools, got into trouble together and usually got out of it together. I watched as Gravedigger’s father became increasingly abusive until he finally broke Gravedigger’s arm and left the family for good. And Gravedigger watched as my young and overwhelmed single mother spiraled into depression until she finally killed herself. So we’d each seen behind the other’s mask more times than we could count. The closest thing I’d ever had to psychotherapy was the occasional drunken all-nighter with Gravedigger, talking about our heavy shit. And I had no doubt that he would say the same.
So I wouldn’t be searching Joan Richmond’s place tonight.
I said, “You’ve got me ’til morning.”
“Thing is, I’m not sure I want to talk about it,” said Gravedigger. He winced, corrected himself, “Scratch that. I’m not sure I can talk about it. Not while you’re so damn sober.”
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