No Show of Remorse

by David J. Walker

  “He said to bring you anyway.”

  * * *

  BRASHER WAS A BIG MAN and had a big, homely, intelligent-looking face. He sat in the back seat of the detectives’ car on the left side, behind the driver—who was also in plainclothes—and I sat on the right. That was after the taller uniformed officer patted me down, of course, and passed my wallet to Brasher.

  He went through everything in the wallet, and handed it back to me. “You carry a lot of cash,” he said.

  “I’m a cash-and-carry sort of guy,” I said. “No credit cards.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why the search of my body and possessions?”

  “Obviously consensual,” he said. “I didn’t hear any objection.”

  “Is that it?” I said, and opened the door beside me.

  “How well did you know Justice Maura Flanagan?”

  I closed the door. “How well did I know her?”

  “That was my question.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “I hardly knew her at all. She called me earlier tonight. Left a message on my machine asking me to come and see her. I called back and said I would.”

  “Really?” His surprise was phony. They’d have listened to her messages. “And what did you talk about?”

  “I left a message on her machine, said I’d be there.”

  “What did you talk about,” he said, “after you got there?”

  “I didn’t get there. I was on my way when two large uniformed police officers grabbed me at gunpoint, threw me up against the side of a car, and searched my body in an intrusive, embarrassing way. They took my wallet, which they gave to a man in civilian clothes, who pawed through it before he gave it back to me. I was kept in custody with no explanation.” I stopped. “Just kidding,” I said. “Why the interrogation?”

  “It’s not an interrogation; it’s an interview. You’re not a suspect; you’re a witness. You’re not in custody; you’re cooperating with a police investigation.”

  “What was I a witness to?”

  “You were one of the last people,” he said, “to see the victim alive.”

  “So she is dead.”

  “Very.”

  “You said ‘victim.’ What happened to her?”

  “Her heart stopped beating,” he said.

  “Not funny,” I said. “What makes you think—”

  There was a rap on the front passenger window. The door opened and a man leaned in and said, “Excuse me.” It was Theodosian. “Could I talk to you for a minute, Brasher?” he asked.

  * * *

  HALF AN HOUR LATER I was sitting in a back booth at an all-night restaurant just south of Lincoln Park, on Clark Street. Theodosian sat across from me and we were both drinking coffee. The waitress returned with a burger and a piece of lemon meringue pie for me, nothing for him. I wasn’t that hungry, but I wanted something to do and say, while I figured out how open I wanted to be with Theodosian. The waitress refilled both our coffees, said to holler if we needed anything, and left.

  “Where’s your partner?” I asked.

  “Furlough.”

  “Really,” I said. “He was at Lonnie Bright’s, you know, after the shooting. He’s mentioned in a report.”

  “I don’t remember that, but I’m not surprised. ICOP was new. It was his baby and he was all over the West Side that year, trying to show the brass he was accomplishing something. Actually, most people thought he was a pain in the ass.”

  “And he’s on furlough now?”

  “That’s what Chicago cops call it. I don’t know about the state guys. Maybe they call it vacation. I mean, he didn’t even tell me he was gonna be gone.” He stirred some sugar into his coffee. “Frick the prick.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. A week, I think.”

  “He picked an interesting time to take off,” I said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing, except … you know … he missed Flanagan’s murder.”

  “That’s not his jurisdiction. Anyway, it’s by order of his commanding officer. Otherwise the sonovabitch never would take time off. It’s a break for me, I tell ya. Frick practically invented the word ‘workaholic.’”

  “I don’t see you taking it easy,” I said, and bit into my burger. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”

  “It’s only temporary. Personally, I don’t think you’re the murdering type. But Brasher has a job to do. He and I go back a ways, and I told him I needed to talk to you, bad, about something else that couldn’t wait. I said I’d transport you to Area Three myself. He’s got plenty to do, anyway.” He sipped some of his coffee. “What I want to know is how does Flanagan fit into your situation?”

  “She doesn’t. Not as far as I know. She’s one of the justices who’ll decide my case, but otherwise…” I shrugged and spread my hands to show my bewilderment. Mustard dripped to the table from the half-eaten burger in my right hand. “Oops.”

  “And nothing else, huh?” He didn’t seem to believe me. Maybe my obfuscation skills were slipping. “Let’s see,” he went on, “first someone shoves a note with a dismembered spider through your slot with your mail and threatens to pull off your limbs, too; then that little friend of yours gets the living shit kicked out of him, carrying a business card that seems to implicate you; and now a supreme court justice gets killed and the dick on the scene tells me there’s a message on her machine saying you’re on your way. Am I reading too much into it, or is it all coincidental?”

  I shrugged. “I think that note on the business card in Yogi’s pocket was another warning to me. Flanagan, though, is different. If there’s a pattern, I don’t see it.”

  “Why’d she call you up then, ask you to come and see her?”

  “Brasher tell you that, too?”

  “He said that’s what you told him.”

  “Right.” I finished off the burger and pulled the pie closer. “But my answer to your question is still the same,” I said. “The connection I know of is that Flanagan’s on … she was on … the supreme court. She called me and I might have found out something else, but I was just getting to her place when I saw all the activity. Then Brasher had me picked up. That’s it.”

  Theodosian drank the last of his coffee. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I don’t think Brasher’s gonna believe your story.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Do you know what a fake book is?”

  “What?”

  “A fake book. Do you?”

  “Sure. Musicians—especially piano players—use them. They’re books with the music—and sometimes the words—for pop tunes, old standards. Usually hundreds of tunes in one book. They print the melody only, and above that the chords, so you can read the melody and fake, or improvise, the arrangement from the chords. I’ve got half a dozen of ’em. Otherwise, I’d have to memorize a thousand—” I stopped. “So what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Brasher’ll go after my ass if he learns I told you, but he said they found a music book on a piano in Flanagan’s place. He said it’s called Columbia’s Colossal Fake Book.”

  “Sure, I’ve got a copy of that one. I used to use it all—”

  “This one’s a beat-up copy, according to Brasher. Cover’s half torn off.” Theodosian stood up and dropped a couple of dollars on the table. “You didn’t hear it here, okay? But this one’s got your name written up in the corner of page one.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  RENATA CARROWAY DID HER USUAL TAKE-CHARGE lawyer thing. She met me at Area Three Headquarters, told me to keep my mouth shut, and demanded to know from Brasher whether I was a suspect. When Brasher waffled, she told him I was exercising my right to remain silent.

  She didn’t tell Brasher we knew about the fake book on the piano because he’d know I must have gotten that
from Theodosian. She insisted, though, that he tell us whether they had anything that actually put me on the scene. He refused to say, and she glared at him through her glasses and dared him to lock me up on whatever evidence they had—which I happened to think was a bit rash. But it worked and I was out of there by two A.M., no charges filed.

  We left in Renata’s car and, driving back to mine, I told her the fake book could have been taken when my house was broken into. “Or maybe it was in the pile of music I always leave at Miz Becky’s.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said.

  “Besides, would I kill her and forget to erase my message off her machine?”

  “People have done dumber things,” she said. “In fact, you yourself have—”

  “Well then,” I said, “I have an airtight alibi for most of the evening.”

  “Really,” she said. “And why didn’t you tell me that before we went in to talk to the police?”

  “Because I wasn’t going to tell them where I was, or with who.”

  When she stopped calling me names, she said, “Whom.”

  “What?”

  “You won’t tell them where you were, or with whom.” By that time we’d gotten to where I’d parked the Buick, and she stopped. “I’ll call you,” she snapped, “when I hear from Brasher.”

  “I’ll tell you, though, where I was. Don’t you want to know?”

  “What good will telling me do?”

  “Well, at least you’d see I’m not making it up. You—”

  “I know you’re not making it up, dammit. I also know you’re always honest with me, and you’re the most irritating, most idiotic client I have.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m tired now, and my child has the flu and I have to get home. Good night.”

  I got out and watched her drive away. I liked Renata, a lot. And I knew she liked me, too—sort of.

  I drove around until I was certain no one was following me and then I drove to Saint Ludella’s and parked in the garage. I got the Beretta out of the trunk and took it inside the rectory with me. There was a note on the kitchen table from Casey, saying the janitor and his wife and baby were gone somewhere, until Monday. “P.S.,” he’d added, “I put clean sheets on the sofa bed and towels in the bathroom. And don’t forget, God loves everyone, even you and me.”

  I went into the housekeeper’s room, put my jacket and the holstered gun on a chair, and lay down on the bed in my clothes. The mattress was still only two inches thick and just as uncomfortable as it had been the last time I’d tried to sleep on it, a couple of years ago.

  I lay there and knew I’d never get to sleep and wished I could believe in God because it would have been nice to have someone to say thank you to for Casey. And for Renata, too. And for …

  I must have fallen asleep around that time and to my knowledge I didn’t see Zorro looking up at me—or the sudden terror in his eyes, or the blood foaming up on his lips—until almost nine o’clock. Which is when I woke up.

  * * *

  WHEN I STUMBLED into the kitchen Casey was sitting at the table reading a thin book with what looked like a leather cover, but seemed too small to be a Bible. He didn’t look up, but said, “Help yourself,” and pointed toward the coffeemaker.

  “Thanks.”

  Maybe it was something in my voice, but he lifted his head, then, and stared at me. “God, you look terrible,” he said. “Go back to bed.”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “Well then, go back and clean up a little. I’ll make breakfast.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Edna not around anymore?” Edna was the woman who used to come in and cook five days a week.

  “Getting over the flu,” he said. “Supposed to be back in a few days. Anyway, I have to eat, too. I’ve been waiting for you to get up.”

  I showered and shaved and changed clothes, and went back to the kitchen. Casey had orange juice, scrambled eggs and sausage, and thick slices of whole wheat bread on the table, and we both dug in.

  “Got any salt?” I said, after a few bites.

  “In that cabinet,” he said, pointing. Then he laughed. “I knew you’d wanna add salt. These eggs, they’re not exactly real eggs, and the sausage is meatless. Edna’s got me on this healthy diet.”

  “Hot dogs and ice cream part of it?” I asked, remembering my supper the evening before.

  “Nope.” He scooped himself some more not-exactly-real eggs. “I cheat a little when she’s not looking. You gonna be around today?”

  “In and out, probably. I’ll be careful, though. Don’t wanna get you in trouble with the Cardinal.”

  “Not to worry,” he said. “I’ve had my ass in a sling with him since he arrived on the scene. That’s how I like it.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. That way he tries not to think about me, and I get to stay right here at Saint Ludella’s—not that there’s a helluva lotta priests standing in line to replace me here.” He shoveled down the rest of his food. “Gotta go. Monthly meeting at the alderman’s office.”

  “The alderman?”

  “Yeah. He’ll be there, and the police commander, local school administrators, clergy, social workers … other community activist and political types. We’re supposed to share ideas about how to make the neighborhood a better place.” He got to his feet. “Most of ’em wish I wouldn’t show up.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, my ass is in a sling with them, too.” He grabbed a black windbreaker off the back of his chair. “Which proves that some of my ideas—like maybe they should stop talking and actually do something about housing, public safety, jobs, and education—must be right.”

  “Have a great time at the meeting,” I said.

  As he headed down the hall toward the front door, he called out, “I won’t need my car today. The keys are in that drawer with the can openers and stuff.”

  “That’s all right,” I called back, “I have—”

  The front door slammed. I finished my breakfast and washed the dishes and studied the evidence until I figured out which cabinet and drawer each piece went in.

  I knew Casey would have been up since six-thirty, and said mass at eight o’clock in a little side chapel in the church for just a few people. He never listened to the news or read the paper until after breakfast. “What’s not a buncha fluffy crap is too damn depressing,” he’d once told me. So he wouldn’t have known about Maura Flanagan’s death.

  But he did get both the Tribune and the Sun-Times delivered to the door, and I found them on a table in the hallway, still folded inside their plastic sleeves. Both had front page headlines that screamed the murder of a supreme court justice, but not much in the way of hard news about what happened. Both said police had no one in custody, but were pursuing several avenues, including looking at cases before the court recently in which a losing party might have been angry. In other words, the cops claimed to be clueless.

  I knew, though, that they had at least two clues, and that both of them pointed my way.

  There was nothing in the papers about my phone message on the answering machine, though, or my fake book. What they had was that Flanagan had lived alone on the first floor of a two-unit condo building. The second floor was being renovated and was vacant. She’d been seen by a neighbor arriving home in a cab about six o’clock. Sometime later a call came in to the desk at the local district station—so it wasn’t taped—from someone claiming they heard screams and a gunshot from inside the house. The responding officers found her dead. She’d been shot once “in the upper part of the body,” police said.

  My own theory was that Flanagan had told the wrong person about our conversation. Whether she’d called me on her own, or the person made her do it, I might never know. Whoever it was, though, must have decided he couldn’t trust her to keep quiet much longer, so he shot her … probably in the head.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t go to Brasher and present my theory. I’d have to reveal the whole story, inclu
ding Stefanie’s overhearing the conversation between Flanagan and Stefanie’s boss, Clark Woolford; Flanagan’s being paid off to close the O.P.S. case; and the drug deal between Lonnie Bright and the cops.

  Of course, if I established all that, Richie Kilgallon would end up in jail—maybe even death row—and that would make Breaker Hanafan happy and keep him away from Yogi. The problem was I couldn’t prove any payoff without Flanagan, and she was dead. More importantly, I couldn’t prove any drug deal without Jimmy’s testimony, and I wasn’t going to be a part of destroying him. He’d been part of the deal, yes, but I was convinced he hadn’t known Lonnie would be killed.

  I’d had a hand in too many deaths in the last couple of days. Maura Flanagan was the latest. But before that, if I’d have just pulled on Zorro and backed him off me, not been so quick to squeeze the trigger, he and his buddies—or some of them, anyway—might not have been inside the Lexus when it blew up. Better them than me, for sure; but still, I didn’t want any more part of people dying.

  * * *

  I SAT IN THE KITCHEN trying to fit the pieces together. At noon I called my phone to retrieve my messages. There were two of them. The one from Brasher said he wanted to talk to me. The one from Renata also said Brasher wanted to talk to me. Renata said she hoped my alibi would stand up.

  I was a suspect in the murder of Maura Flanagan.

  CHAPTER

  43

  I CALLED RENATA. “You don’t have caller ID, do you?”

  “Not at the office. Where—”

  “Good. I’m far, far away. I do have an alibi, and it’ll stand up if we ever need it. But in the meantime, if they ask whether you’ve heard from me you can say yes and that I said I’d turn myself in and cooperate. That’s all. Nothing about the alibi. Okay?”

  “So,” she said, “when will you be here?”

  “What?”

  “You’re wanted for the murder of a justice of the Illinois Supreme Court, for God’s sake. No way you can stay underground for long. You said you’re turning yourself in. When will you be here?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” I said, and hung up on her.

  The next call was to Jimmy Coletta’s home. Suzanne answered and I said, “it’s Foley. You have caller ID?”