by Joseph Flynn
Paulette laughed. “Did you ever do that?”
“Nah. I just decided George A. Black was close enough. So what about you?”
“You mean you’d like to know more about me?”
“Only if you want to share.”
She bobbed her head. “What would you like to know?”
“Well, if it’s not too nosy, how are you paying Zeke’s fee?”
“I’m a really good CPA. I have my own small, select accounting firm.”
“Well, good for you.”
“I started doing other people’s tax returns, the easy ones, in high school.”
“Numbers a family trade?”
“Mom, yes; Dad, no … but Aunt Pamela was also a CPA.”
Before that line of conversation could be pursued, George’s phone chimed. He answered, listened and said, “Yeah, man. Got it. Right away.”
Paulette saw George was all business now.
“What happened?” she asked.
He told her of the attempted assault on Zeke and Reggie, and the outcome.
“Zeke suggested you and I might be safer back at the house.”
Paulette took George’s arm and they headed to his car.
Reggie admitted cracking the skull of the thug who tried to slip past her and get to Zeke.
The cop in charge of the arrest team, Sergeant of Detectives Arvid Washington, was conducting the interviews of the intended victims in Aaron Levy’s office, after declining a cup of green tea at Sugiyama-san’s dojo. Aaron’s personal attorney, Morris Feingold, was also present.
“You felt you had to smack the guy on the back of his head with a metal baton?” Washington asked.
“I gave him a shot on the wrist first. Pretty sure I heard a bone break, too.”
“You’re right about that,” Washington told her.
“Thing was, the guy didn’t seem to care or even notice. I think he was on drugs.”
“Right again.”
“So I couldn’t let him have a free run at my dear friend, Mr. Edison.”
“The two of you are close?”
“In oh so many ways.” Reggie grinned at Zeke, who rolled his eyes. “So I upped the ante and hit him on the head.”
“You might have killed him.”
“And he might’ve killed Zeke. It was an easy choice for me.”
“You know the state’s attorney might take a dim view of your using a baton.”
Reggie shrugged. “I believe what the municipal code says is carrying a baton with the intent to use it unlawfully is what’s problematic. Is any one in this town going to say saving Zeke Edison from getting clobbered from behind is unlawful intent?”
Morris Feingold told Reggie, “Bravo.”
Sergeant Washington sighed and asked Reggie, “You a lawyer, too?”
“Worse, I’m a journalist and an army veteran.”
Aaron added, “Ms. Green, if you missed it, Detective, was the reporter who led the escape of six prisoners held by the Taliban in Afghanistan.”
“That was you, huh? You did somebody in making your getaway, if I remember reading the story right.”
“Strangled the guard who gave me the headscarf he thought I should be wearing,” Reggie told Washington.
“Strangled him with the scarf, right?”
Reggie nodded. “I could see it in his eyes after I’d choked him out. He’d been thinking, ‘Now, why’d I have to go and give her that damn thing?’”
The sergeant turned to Zeke. “You saw things the same way as Ms. Green, Mr. Edison?”
“I didn’t see the second guy until he was down, didn’t see the third guy in the car at all,” Zeke said. “I feel like I missed my read on the whole situation.”
“You did just fine with the guy who came right at you. He’s got a dislocated shoulder, a skull fracture and a broken neck.”
“I’ve already had a neck injury. So I’ll go along with Reggie: Better him than me.”
“Yeah, I’d feel the same way,” Washington said. “So, okay, here’s what we found out about the car with the license plates Mr. Levy saw. It belongs to a guy named Tommy Kapono. His brother Nelson is the guy Ms. Green dented real good. Their cousin, Terrence Ahomana is the dude Mr. Edison laid out.”
“And all these individuals are known to the police from their criminal records?” Morris Feingold asked.
“That’s right, Counselor. Strong-arm stuff. They usually lean on people who don’t fight back quite so hard. All of them have done time in state prisons.”
“Do they have any gang affiliations?” Aaron asked.
“Not that we’ve found. Word is they work freelance. Muscle for hire.” Washington looked at Zeke. “You think, maybe, it was some pissed-off Green Bay fans looking to get back at you, Mr. Edison?”
Zeke had received more than a few threatening messages from that quarter.
But all he said was, “Let me walk you out, Sergeant. Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”
As they left, Reggie called out, “I want my baton back.”
“You ever hear of Jonas Dawson?” Zeke asked Sergeant of Detectives Washington.
The two men stood on the sidewalk outside of Aaron Levy’s office building.
Washington gave Zeke a look of suspicion. “Yeah, I know about him. What do you know?”
Zeke told the cop about his new client, everything about her, and how he’d stopped into Teddy’s Diner that morning. Washington found that interesting, in part anyway.
“The man did a double-take when he saw a picture of your client on your phone?”
“That and stared at me like I was supposed to be scared of him. When that didn’t work, he left angry.”
“So you think he’s the one who sent those punks after you?”
“Not directly, not if he’s as slippery as he’s supposed to be,” Zeke said.
“So you do know something about the man.”
“That he was the only crooked cop out of a corrupt gang of them who got off scot-free. He beat the city out of a fair piece of money, went to law school and now he gets other sleaze-bags off the hook. A friend speculated that he was the toughest one of the crooked cops and nobody would rat on him because they feared him. But I saw the guy, and I don’t think he’s all that scary. Word is he has other leverage: a mob connection.”
Washington smiled and nodded. “That’s pretty good for someone who’s got to be a beginner at checking up on people. I mean, you weren’t working this private eye gig while you were playing football, were you?”
Zeke shook his head.
“My car’s just up the street,” Washington said. “We can talk some more there.”
Washington had a red Mercedes AMG GT.
Sliding in opposite the cop, Zeke said, “You’ve got a nicer car than I do.”
Washington smiled. “Not because I make bigger money than you … well, bigger than you used to make. I just helped out on a joint operation with the DEA. This car belonged to a guy who moved enough dope to buy an NFL team. His arrest isn’t public news yet and, wouldn’t you know it, I look something like him. So a genius on the federal side said, ‘Let’s give Washington the car for a week, see who makes an approach.’”
“Wouldn’t a guy like that have enemies?” Zeke asked.
“He does.”
“Somebody who might like to kill the car’s original owner?”
“Entirely possible.”
“Meaning they probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill whoever might be sitting with him or, in this case, you.”
“You catch on quick,” Washington said. “That’s exactly the point I want to make here. You’re putting yourself in the same kind of spot getting up in Jonas Dawson’s face. I was new to the job when he slipped out of the mess that caught all those other bent coppers. You were right that he wasn’t the toughest, but he was the guy who stashed all the money they stole. Or so the story goes. He was the one who was supposed to pay off the guys who got caught when they were released.”
“Supposed to?” Zeke asked.
“Yeah. Damnedest things kept happening. Well, really, it was the same thing happening over and over again. All Dawson’s old police buddies but one got themselves killed in the joint. Make that several joints up and down the state. Meaning Dawson got to keep all their shares of the money. Right now, there’s only one of those bad cops left, and that’s because he got transferred to an unspecified prison in another state, under a new name.”
“Shouldn’t someone like that be ready to squeal on the SOB?” Zeke asked.
“Sure, if he had something in the way of evidence. Otherwise, it’s just a jailbird’s word against a guy who already took the city for a bunch of money.”
“You know this last guy’s name or where he’s stashed?”
Washington laughed. “Can’t do all your work for you, rookie.”
Zeke nodded. “Fair enough. Thanks for all your help.”
“Yeah, man, you’re welcome. Dawson underestimated you today, with those small-timers he sent after you. But you can bet he knows guys who’d make riding in this car seem like no big deal.”
“Thanks for that, too.”
“No problem,” Sergeant of Detectives Washington said. “I really liked that hit you laid on those Green Bay dudes.”
Chapter 7
Donald Magro sat in Jonas Dawson’s top floor, lake-view office in a La Salle Street high rise and asked a simple question, “Has the witness been inconvenienced?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dawson replied. “Seriously inconvenienced.”
“So I’m good then?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“You having some other problem?”
“No, what do you mean?” Dawson asked.
“You look like you ate some bad fish.”
The lawyer gave his most important client a weak grin. “You know, I think I might have a touch of food poisoning. Maybe I should think about filing a civil suit.”
Magro shook his head. “Stick to what you’re good at. If you’re really sick and it’s from something you ate, I’ll have a chat with the responsible party. It’ll all get worked out.”
Dawson waved off the offer of help. “I was just joking about taking the guy to court. An antacid or two will fix me up.”
“Okay then. We’ll all get on with our business and nobody has any worries.”
Magro stood, ready to leave. Dawson got to his feet and extended a hand. His client took it in both of his hands, possessively.
“You know you’re very important to a lot of people, Jonas.”
“I do.”
“If something more serious than a queasy stomach is bothering you, I need to know.”
“I’m good. I think I’ll knock off for the day in a few minutes. Go home and lie down. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
Tightening his grip on the lawyer’s hand, Magro said, “But I’m fine right now, right?”
“Yeah, sure, Don. Couldn’t be finer.”
Magro looked for a glimmer of deceit in Dawson’s eyes but didn’t find any.
He released his grip on the lawyer and said, “Good.”
Dawson followed his client to his office door, gave him what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the back and, once he was alone again, all but collapsed onto his leather sofa. He looked out at the city below him and wondered how long he’d have one of the best views in town. He’d literally risen above any expectations he’d ever had for himself as a young man.
He’d always been smart, at least compared to most of the guys in the neighborhood. He hustled, too. Racing down the basketball court for a fast break layup or turning a ground ball into an infield single, he always busted his ass to make something out of nothing. Most times, things worked out for him. He came out ahead of the game.
When he didn’t have the money to go to a university right out of high school, he went to a community college at night, and worked in a trading pit at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange during the day. He saw all the asshole traders buying and selling by yelling at each other. Open outcry they called it. The traders thought they were tough guys, pushing and shoving each other whenever they scrambled to get a piece of some juicy deal. The poor mopes working in the pits for the exchange, writing down the trades as they got called out, had to avoid being trampled half the time.
Except for Jonas. When he’d interviewed for the job, he’d been told every pit had to have one big tough exchange SOB working in the midst of the mob. Someone who’d look out for his co-workers and could chill out overheated traders without giving them any lip. Mute intimidation was the ticket.
That was what the guy who had hired Jonas asked if he could do.
Jonas only glared and nodded. Which was perfect. He got the job.
By succeeding at his job, though, Jonas eliminated any chance of moving up in the world at the Merc. Being an exchange employee offered limited prospects for the future. The big money lay in having a trader take a shine to you and give you a job with his company. That was where you got the chance to become a trader yourself. Sure, you’d inevitably become as big an asshole as the rest of them but, Jesus God, the money could be enormous.
Most traders, even the women, flashed rolls of bills that could gag a hippo.
Usually, nothing smaller than C-notes, too.
Only Jonas would never catch on with a trading company because he scared all the traders, made them realize they were pussies not hard guys, and they hated him for it. The day after he got his associate’s degree from his community college, he quit the exchange and applied for a job with the cops. His first year in uniform, he toed the line, kept his nose clean and learned who was who in the department. Sucked up without being obvious about it.
He went back to night school, aiming for a bachelor’s degree in public administration. Three years later, he had both graduated with honors and passed the sergeant’s exam. In his mid-twenties, he was a man on the move with his eyes wide open for opportunities.
One thing he’d noticed right off was that drug dealers, often younger than he was and barely literate, had rolls of money just as big as the guys in the trading pits. The dealers were assholes, too, but they were usually a lot tougher than commodities traders. Then again, cops were tougher than exchange employees.
Sergeant Jonas Dawson felt it was time the boys in blue, who kept the city from falling into complete ruin, received greater compensation for the work they did than their city paychecks. He thought an equitable redistribution of liquid assets — cash — should provide street cops with comfortable retirements in warm places. So he came up with a plan.
He and a select crew would relieve street dealers of both their drugs and their money. The narcotics they’d resell to the mob, the old line gangsters that had given the town a large part of its reputation, for pennies on the dollar and protection from the organizations that would be ripped off. The irony of having the mob protecting cops was part of the appeal for Dawson.
The underworld figure Dawson approached with the idea had also been a young up-and-comer on his side of the street: Donald Magro. Don had sold it to his bosses, and the plan had worked for a long time. Everybody made money. Lots of it.
As what he called a precautionary measure, Dawson had given his bent cops only 10% of their proceeds up front. He said it was for their own safety. So if things ever got hot they wouldn’t have summer homes, fancy cars or stashes of cash in their basements to explain to prosecutors and the IRS. When they chose to retire or otherwise left the department, a foreign bank account would be opened for each of them, in an alias, fully funded with what they were owed.
The only problem turned out to be that receiving even a small fraction of their ill-gotten gains turned out to be too obvious to escape official notice. Three of the gang in blue thought it would be okay to exhibit their own huge rolls of money in restaurants, bars and even their own police station. Eyebrows were raised and internal affairs went to work.
Two things saved Sergeant Jonas Daw
son. He’d stashed all his booty where nobody ever found it. No investigator was able to track down a dollar that couldn’t be accounted for by his official income. The other thing was the three stooges who’d been indiscreet had immediately been provided with lawyers who whispered the following directly into their ears: Say nothing and you’ll get double what you have stashed when you get out. Rat Sergeant Dawson out and you’re dead.
That, of course, left wriggle room for the stooges to squeal on the others in the gang. So everybody but Dawson got pinched, convicted and locked up. They all got killed in prison, too, except for Stevie Zimmerman who had managed to kill the two guys sent to shank him. Stevie Z was still locked up under another name in another state.
Every day he stepped out his front door, Jonas Dawson worried Stevie Z might be waiting for him, released by the courts just so he could get revenge on Dawson and give any number of honest cops and prosecutors a good laugh.
It had been a long time, though, since Dawson thought he had to worry about Pamela Keller. Then he bumped into that woman in Northbrook Court, a damn shopping mall he went to maybe once a year. She’d looked just like Pamela. It was all he could do to keep from strangling her right there in the food court.
Then goddamn Zeke Edison, of all people, has a photo of the same young woman on his phone at Teddy’s Diner, for Christ’s sake. Thinking about that again made cold sweat pop out on Dawson’s forehead. All he could do now was hope those damn Hawaiians of his threw a good enough beating into the guy to get him to back off.
If they hadn’t, he’d have to call in the two pros who’d inconvenienced Don Magro’s problem witness.
When Zeke returned to Aaron Levy’s office, Reggie asked him, “Did that cop give you a hard time?”
“No.”
“Did he return my baton?”
“Forgot to ask. I’ll buy you a new one.”
Reggie frowned.
“What?” Zeke asked. “The old one had sentimental value.”
“Your ass isn’t the only one I’ve saved with that baton.”