Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

  “I’m not going anywhere.” When I moved to leave, someone’s knee drilled into my thigh then a fist bore into my lower back. I crumpled into supporting arms that escorted me to the waiting car.

  Brookstone rode in front while I was in the back flanked by my new friends. Nobody spoke. Residual pain demanded most of my attention but I could tell we were headed west on Belmont. A few minutes later, we parked in front of a nondescript one-story building across from an enormous radio tower. My chaperones guided me inside, where a bunch of small offices abutted a warehouse. Brookstone held the door open to one of the offices but didn’t enter. Henry DeWeldt sat behind a desk, looking worried.

  “I won’t take up too much of your time,” DeWeldt said. “How much do you want to quit working for your client?”

  “How much are you paying Brookstone? You realize he moonlights for the Chicago Police Department, right?”

  “That’s all the more reason to take a gift, investigate something else, and get on with your life.”

  It hurt to laugh. “Okay, I see the light. And I’ll sell myself real cheap. Just give me plenty of truth. Kate McCall didn’t kill Jackie Whitney. I want to know who did.”

  DeWeldt studied me. “How do you know she didn’t kill her?”

  “She had no reason. Kate McCall never had it better than when she worked for Jackie Whitney.”

  DeWeldt didn’t respond, just stared at me. “Why would you think I had anything to do with her death?”

  “Just a wild hunch.”

  DeWeldt leaned back in his chair, studied his fingernails. I guessed paraffin manicure. “Tell me,” he said. “This hunch of yours. Was it influenced by your probing for truth? Did you come across some information that’s causing you to assume things?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Can you be more specific?”

  “If you know how to get this information, returning it to me would make you a wealthy man.”

  “What does this information have to do with Jackie Whitney?”

  “It has nothing to do with Jackie Whitney, which is why the information is of no use to you. I was simply Jackie’s lawyer, in charge of her estate.”

  “Give me some credit, Henry. It didn’t take much investigating to learn you and Jackie had evolved beyond simple lawyer-client rapport. Too much pillow talk, is that it? It that what you’re afraid of?”

  DeWeldt sighed then said, “Please understand something, Mr. Landau. I don’t enjoy employing mobster-like intimidation tactics. I’m just a businessman protecting myself and everything I’ve worked for. These men keep telling me that only acts of violence will make someone understand how serious I am. And I’m supposed to emphasize that each painful incident will be more painful than the one preceding it. The thought of playing that kind of hardball makes me sick. But I’ll try it if I have to.”

  DeWeldt crossed his arms against his body, closed his eyes, then dropped his chin to his chest. He was either a fabulous actor or genuinely sincere.

  I said, “All I understand is that you have a fondness for paying off people so you can screw the elderly out of their money, and that you were an unfaithful boyfriend.”

  DeWeldt lifted his head then barely glanced at one of the goons before a slug to the back rocked me, sent me to my knees. A moment later, two pairs of arms lifted me, dragged me to the door, then tossed me to the sidewalk.

  —

  A cab dropped me off at Penguin House. By the time I found my car and returned home, it was dark. The previous four hours had been excruciating. Punched in the nose and back, kneed in the thigh. I felt strangely fortunate that the pain in my back came from the muscles above the kidney. If DeWeldt was really the murdering type, I reasoned, would I be alive, no less worrying about pissing blood?

  An hour later a knock on the door got me off the couch. I opened the door and was met by Tamar’s lovely dark eyes. She had a small backpack slung over her shoulder.

  “Surprise,” she said. “Irina is proving to be a more reliable assistant manager every day. That means more time for me to get away.”

  “No phone call?” I said. “Just stop by and assume I’m available?”

  Tamar sauntered past me, dropped her backpack on the recliner, then walked into the kitchen and said, “Do you call your jailhouse sweetie before visiting? What do you got to eat?”

  I walked over to her, unable to hide my physical discomfort.

  “What happened to you?” She put her arm around my waist.

  “Don’t overreact. I got roughed up a bit. Nothing serious, just deep bruises.”

  “Your nose is swollen!”

  “A little swollen. My wounds are superficial, I swear. Just aches and pains, really.”

  Tamar’s anxious eyes darted around my face. “I’d feel better if you’d tell me more.”

  “Let’s sit and talk awhile.” We walked back to the couch. Tamar leaned into me then put her arm around my shoulders. “This morning I told you about a dirty lawyer who possibly dated Jackie Whitney. His law firm seems to specialize in preying upon wealthy elderly. The firm’s lawyers get caught, but the agency that checks up on unethical behavior shrugs it off. If Jackie Whitney had evidence linking the lawyer to corrupting disciplinary commissioners, his life and the lives of others could certainly be ruined. That’s an obvious motivation for murder.”

  “But how do you prove it?”

  “I can’t, at least not yet. As it stands, it’s useless for the trial.”

  “And if you get killed, you’ll also be useless for the trial.”

  “If I was going to get killed, I’d be dead by now.” I had tried to sound funny, but Tamar missed the humor. “On the coffee table,” I said and pointed to a menu from Tasty Harmony, the restaurant down the block. “Pick something off the menu and order two of them. Tell them you’re with me and they’ll bring it to us.”

  Tamar did as directed and within a half hour two wraps with tortilla chips arrived. I asked what her overall feelings were about owning a bakery. She bit off a chunk of her wrap and thought about it. “I have a confession,” she said. “Apart from the early hours, owning a successful bakery has started to give me great satisfaction—like I’ve never felt before.”

  The sincerity in her voice thrilled me. I was about to gush over how much she had accomplished when Tamar suddenly turned the conversation back to my investigation.

  “Who else would benefit from Jackie Whitney’s death?” Tamar said. “I mean, maybe you’re too quick in assuming the lawyer saw his corruption exposure as worth killing over.”

  “Maybe. But why is he so hot for me to stop helping Kate McCall?”

  “I bet there’s a connection between Kate McCall and the lawyer.”

  “It’s hard to picture, considering their different backgrounds. Although they did have the victim in common, so it’s possible.” Neither of us spoke for a few moments, then I said, “I guess there’s really two questions that need to be answered. Who benefits from Jackie Whitney’s death? And who benefits from Kate McCall taking the blame?”

  Tamar nodded enthusiastically. I really wanted to talk more about her life, but she wouldn’t cooperate. “Was Jackie Whitney into anything illegal? Like drugs?”

  I thought of Linda Napier then said, “Not that I know of.”

  “You hesitated,” Tamar said.

  “Whitney had a friend who was a recovering drug addict. But it was the drugs that pushed them apart. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  Tamar tried to suppress a yawn. The demands of her sleep cycle could not be ignored, nor should they be.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning I awoke with a vague memory of Tamar’s travel alarm going off at three A.M., and then a kiss goodbye. My aching muscles made for a painful walk to the bathroom, but the hot shower was well worth it. When I shut off the water, my ringing phone compelled me to spatter water the length of the hall and into the living room, where I arrived too late to catch George’s call.

  “You ran
g,” I said when George answered the phone.

  “Yes, I just got a strange call from Linda. She wanted to take me to meet someone. She was acting real paranoid, saying she couldn’t tell me who it was over the phone. I told her if it had something to do with Jackie she should tell you—and that I preferred not to know.”

  “Call her back and tell her you’ll be right over—”

  “I can’t just leave the store! I’m the only one here.”

  “You’re not leaving. It’ll be me going over there. If she calls you back to see where you are, just apologize and say you have too many customers.”

  George agreed to cooperate but he wasn’t happy. I dressed and headed back to East Lincoln Park.

  —

  As I idled patiently in a narrow one-way alley, my growling stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Surveillance only lasted a few minutes before Linda’s garage door began opening. Her white Lexus SUV backed into the alley and sped off, coming to a screeching halt at the sidewalk before peeling out as she turned onto Belden. I followed as she zigzagged her way to Clark and then headed south. When she continued on to North LaSalle I had an idea where she was going. When she turned onto East Oak, I knew exactly where she was going.

  Linda parked in a loading zone in front of Jackie Whitney’s building, turned on the flashing hazard lights, then ran to the revolving door and pushed her way through. I parked illegally at the end of the block, followed her into the building, then stood behind the cluster of fake trees. Linda stood close to Manny, leaning forward a bit, clearly violating his personal space. Manny stood his ground, casually grabbing glances in the lobby to see if anyone had taken notice of his activity. I studied his face, trying to gauge emotions. He appeared not to mind Linda’s company and even seemed somewhat concerned with whatever she was talking about. At one point Manny put his open hands together in front of his chest as if in prayer, and spoke slowly with a kind of helpless, beseeching expression. When he stopped talking, the two kept their eyes zeroed in on each other for several awkward moments before Manny walked away to the implied safety of the doorman’s desk. Linda started talking again. Manny busied himself with some kind of paperwork. Finally, Linda turned and fast-walked her way back through the lobby. Manny put a cellphone to his ear. I ran through the lobby and got to my car in time to follow Linda back to the townhouse. To my surprise, she answered the door almost immediately. She looked groggy, like she’d been up all night drinking.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your little discussion with the doorman.”

  “Yeah, so what? It’s a free country.”

  “I also couldn’t help but wonder what you were talking about.”

  “Why don’t you ask the doorman?”

  “Because I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t have to answer any more of your questions, detective.”

  “Once again, I’m a private investigator, and you should answer my questions unless you want me to think you’re hiding something.”

  Linda closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then walked into the living room, leaving me standing in the doorway. I interpreted this as an invitation to enter. We sat at opposite ends of the couch, as we had during our first visit.

  I waited. She said, “After Josh—Dr. Kessler—ended our relationship, I was upset. Manny—the doorman—had always been very friendly to me. I confided in him. He was very sweet. We became friends, but he wanted more. I succumbed once, but that was it. I told him we could only be friends. But he kept calling me, stopping by at odd hours. Finally, I had to face him and tell him to leave me alone. That’s all I was doing.”

  “Why did you call George before going to confront Manny?”

  “George? George told you this? George is an old friend. I wanted a friend with me in case Manny reacted—you know, in a scary way.”

  Linda was a good storyteller, very breathy and dramatic in her delivery. I said, “It’s hard for me to picture Manny getting angry, no less acting scary, in a lobby full of people.”

  “He’s still a man.”

  “Your conversation had nothing to do with Jackie Whitney?”

  Her face morphed into something angry and scary. “Oh, no you don’t, you shit! I’m not going to let you get to me. I had nothing to do with Jackie’s death.”

  “I’m not saying—”

  “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her! You’re just like the cops, treating everyone like a criminal. And I’m not going to let you twist my words around to try to incriminate me!”

  I stood. Linda looked baffled. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said. “Sit down, please. Do you want a drink?”

  I declined the offer then departed, sufficiently creeped out.

  —

  First stopping at El Desayuno Loco, I fudged my vegan principles and ordered an egg and potato burrito. Two consecutive bites later, my phone rang with Kalijero’s name.

  “I heard you got knocked around,” Kalijero said.

  I formulated the words “Hang on,” then managed to swallow enough to say, “A little. Who told you?”

  “Your mouth all swollen or something?”

  “No, I’m eating. Who told you?”

  “Brookstone called me. He wanted me to talk sense into you.”

  “So he called you? You’re not dirty like him, why would he call you?”

  “How the hell would you know if I was dirty or not? You don’t know shit about me.”

  The bubble hissed loudly as it shrunk. I knew I held Kalijero in unrealistically high esteem, but hearing from his own mouth that perhaps he too could be bought felt like another gut punch.

  “So talk,” I said.

  “I know I can’t talk sense into you, but you should know how much Brookstone hates public defenders. Especially the one you’re working with.”

  “Did you tell him it’s just a job? Jesus, can’t a guy make a living?”

  “Cops see public defenders as the criminal’s associate. You know, the bleeding hearts blaming all crime on poverty; poor people can’t help it; et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Innocent people going away for murder. How does he feel about that?”

  “He doesn’t give a shit. You know that. He’s been working the Gold Coast murder from the start. He wants to look like a hero, the cop who put away the murderer of the beloved Chicagoan Jackie Whitney.”

  My call waiting chimed in with Linda’s number. “I gotta go,” I said and picked up the call. “Linda?”

  “It’s my meds,” Linda said. “They affect my behavior sometimes. I didn’t tell you everything about my conversation with Manny—the doorman.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Well, first, I think you should know that Manny confided in me that Jackie talked down to him. He said she ordered him up to her place to hang pictures or help move furniture. And she didn’t tip him for the extra work! Other times she told him he was ignorant and should go back to school or get some training so that he could get a real job. I told her she was being mean. She said it was tough love and criticized me for wasting my time with someone like Manny.”

  Perhaps it was her history of drug use that prejudiced me to detect a phony manner in her speech. Tears had brimmed from Manny’s eyes when I first spoke of Jackie Whitney’s death. “Manny had nothing bad to say about Jackie,” I said.

  “He’s too nice. And he was afraid of losing his job if something he said got back to her. He won’t say anything bad about anybody.”

  “Back to your conversation with Manny. What did you forget to tell me?”

  “I forgot to tell you that he was upset about a rumor that he had been hanging around Jackie’s apartment the night she came home.”

  “What does that mean? He was in Jackie’s private lobby? Actually in her apartment? How would someone know unless they were there too?”

  Linda’s breathing was audible. “I—I don’t know. He didn’t say any more. Maybe someone was on the elevator
and saw him get on or off.”

  “Did he say he knew the source of the rumor? Was he angry?”

  “He didn’t tell me who started it but he was worried sick someone might tell the police.”

  “People intentionally start rumors because they’re scared to come forward. They don’t want to explain how they knew what they knew.”

  “Are you going to tell the police about the rumor? I’m sure they’ll believe you.”

  “Not unless someone comes forward as a witness.”

  “But as you said, the witness would be incriminating themselves.”

  That’s not what I said, but Linda knew how to read between the lines.

  —

  I recalled Manny telling me he didn’t know any of Jackie Whitney’s friends. He apparently knew Linda Napier quite well. Maybe he thought I meant friends from the building. Regardless, I got the feeling Manny wasn’t surprised to see me. “I saw you standing by the trees,” he said.

  “Thanks for not blowing my cover. You mind telling me what Linda was talking to you about?”

  Manny seemed a touch bothered. “Gosh, is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not sure. I hope not.”

  “Well, lately she’s been coming up with foolish theories about Jackie. She likes to run them by me. I tell her she’s letting her mind get away from her, then she starts flirting and I have to carefully ease her away.”

  “What was Linda’s wild theory this time?”

  “Actually,” he said, “today was a little different. She wanted to tell me about a silly rumor.” Manny’s demeanor had grown uncharacteristically solemn.

  “She was telling you about a rumor?” I said. “Would you mind telling me about the rumor?”

  Manny hesitated. “She said she’d heard that Dr. Kessler had a duplicate key to Jackie’s apartment and that he was in the area around the time the murder took place.”

  “Did she tell you where she heard this?”

  “I didn’t ask. I suggested she tell the police and excused myself.”

  “She said you two were in a relationship.”

  Manny groaned. “That poor girl. She wanted to be in a relationship. She was heartsick over Dr. Kessler breaking up with her. I gave her some encouraging words but she misinterpreted my intentions. I reminded her that I’m happily married with two children, Mr. Landau. I think Linda is very lonely.”