Policemen, on the other hand, were on call twenty-four-seven. Should she call Detective Kulicki and tell him what she’d found out? Once Bertie brought the police into it, the wheels of justice would begin to grind inexorably forward. But what if she were wrong? Like many African Americans, Bertie tended to view the police with suspicion. In her experience, they tended to shoot first and ask questions later, especially where black men were concerned.
Maybe Ellen Simpson would be able to suggest the best course of action. After all, she was a brilliant woman and a committed social activist. Laboriously, Bertie tapped out a message on her cell phone.
You still up? It’s Bertie. I need some advice.
Ellen’s reply came seconds later: Call me tomorrow, okay? Raquib is here & I’m in love!
Feeling frustrated and more than a little sorry for herself, Bertie extracted a bottle of cognac from the cupboard and added a stiff dose to her cup. Tomorrow, at a respectable hour, she’d give Mac a call. Later still, she’d check in with Ellen. Until then, she was going to put LaShawn, the Hot Sauce King, and Theophilous Green’s murder completely out of her mind.
At four forty-five, Bertie’s cell phone startled her awake. Trapped inside the device’s miniature speaker, her Marvin Gaye ringtone played “What’s Goin’ On?” over and over. The phone should have been right beside her bed, but, of course, it wasn’t. After a brief pause, Marvin began to sing again.
By the time Bertie finally located her phone, it had stopped ringing. She staggered into the bathroom and splashed some cold water onto her face. Most likely some drunk who couldn’t see straight enough to punch in the right digits. No friend of mine would dare call me at this hour. Bertie was just tucking the blankets back around her neck when Marvin began to sing again. Heaving a reluctant sigh, she rolled out of bed and picked up the phone.
“I should never have trusted you!” LaShawn’s grandmother was screaming. “You lied to me. You and that fancy lawyer friend of yours.”
In as calm a tone as she could muster, Bertie replied, “What is it, Mrs. Petty? Has something happened to LaShawn?”
“My baby’s dead, Mrs. Bigelow. You promised to help. Instead, you got him killed.”
Bertie’s stomach ached as though it had been kicked. As Mrs. Petty continued to harangue her, alternating between screaming and weeping, Bertie stared numbly around the room. LaShawn? Dead? How could that be? She’d just talked to him the day before. He’d promised to call first thing Monday morning. Surely there’d been some kind of mistake. When Mrs. Petty finally calmed down enough to be coherent, Bertie realized that there had been no mistake. LaShawn Thomas was dead—killed in a drive-by shooting in Englewood the night before.
“What did the police say?” Bertie asked her. “Has anyone been arrested?”
“When someone gets killed in your neighborhood, the cops make arrests,” Mrs. Petty said bitterly. “Around here, no one cares.”
Bertie lived in an integrated, middle-class neighborhood near the University of Chicago. Though she didn’t think of herself as privileged, the brutal truth was she and Lurlean Petty inhabited vastly different worlds.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” Bertie mumbled. Even as she said them, her words felt weak and futile. “I only wanted to help the boy, Mrs. Petty. You’ve got to believe me.”
Now that she’d vented her anger and grief, Mrs. Petty began crying softly.
“LaShawn was my heart, the light of my life. I practically raised him after his mama got the AIDS. When his father was killed, I did everything I could to keep LaShawn safe. But for whatever reason, the good Lord has decided to call my baby home. Sherelle and her son, Benny, are all the family I got left.”
For a moment, both women were silent.
“As God is my witness, I will do what I can to find out what happened to your grandson,” Bertie said, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand.
“You do that,” Lurlean Petty said and hung up.
When David Mackenzie phoned later that morning, his mood was somber.
“Detective Kulicki filled me in on the details earlier today,” Mac told her. “As murders go, LaShawn’s was pretty routine. Sometime between midnight and two a.m., a black SUV approached LaShawn as he stood at the corner of 63rd and Stewart. Shots were fired. When the car drove away, LaShawn was dead. Several people saw the SUV and heard the shots. But beyond that, no one’s talking. No one will admit to having seen the license plate or any other distinguishing characteristics about the car. The kid was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Bertie. This case might never be solved.”
Chapter Twenty
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2013
Metro Community College went into mourning as news of LaShawn’s death spread among students and faculty. In the halls between classes, fearful students gathered in clusters to grieve. Instead of the usual routine at choir practice, Bertie used the time to let students share their feelings about death, about LaShawn, and about the growing violence on the streets of the city. As the day progressed, Bertie found herself becoming angrier and angrier. This was America, not Baghdad. There was something deeply wrong with a society in which a bright, talented, and unarmed young man could be brazenly gunned down in the middle of the street. No arrests had been made, and as far as Bertie knew, the police were not even questioning possible suspects.
At lunchtime, there was none of the usual banter in the faculty lounge. Red-eyed from weeping, Maria Francione sobbed dramatically in the corner. At the opposite end of the room, Jack Ivers brooded in stoic silence. As Bertie refilled her mug from the office coffee machine, Letitia Petrowski caught her eye.
“I want you to know how sorry I am about those terrible things I said the other day,” she said. “LaShawn was my student, too, you know. It’s true I got frustrated with him at times, but only because I saw how bright he was.”
When Bertie nodded absently, the science teacher continued. “I may have been the last person on earth to speak with him before he was shot. Isn’t that strange? LaShawn called me Friday night. He wanted to know if I knew what isopropyl nitrite was. Said he’d found a case of the stuff and wanted to know if it was legal.”
Slowly, Bertie put down her coffee cup. “And is it? Legal, I mean.”
“Depends what you’re using it for,” Petrowski said. “It’s an inhalant reputed to have aphrodisiac properties. If you sell it to others for that purpose, it’s illegal. But if you’re selling it as a ‘room deodorizer,’ it’s perfectly legal. When I asked why he wanted to know, LaShawn said it was for an extra credit project he was doing to make up for all the classes he’d missed. He said his suspension was about to be lifted and that he’d show me the drug on Monday.” She daubed the corners of her eyes with a napkin. “Isn’t that something?”
It certainly was. Letitia Petrowski had no idea just how much of a something. Bertie hurried out of the lounge and called David Mackenzie.
“Mackenzie, Broward, and Jones,” his receptionist answered. As Bertie waited impatiently for Mac to pick up his extension, it crossed her mind that it would probably have been better to send an email. But it was too late for that now. Several minutes ticked by before Mac finally came to the phone.
“I’m in the middle of an important meeting right now,” he said irritably. “Can I call you later?”
“This will only take a second, I promise.” Her news was too important to wait. “The night he was killed, LaShawn told his chemistry teacher he had a case of isopropyl nitrite. It’s illegal to sell the stuff except as a room deodorizer. He was going to bring it to show her on Monday.”
David Mackenzie sighed. “Stay out of this, Bertie. Meddling in a murder case like this could be dangerous. LaShawn’s death is a police matter now.”
“But don’t you see?” Bertie persisted. “I think he got the stuff from the Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic. The place is only two blocks from where he was killed.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” he snapped. “A m
urder investigation is no place for amateurs.”
Stung, Bertie did not respond.
“Give it a rest,” Mackenzie said in a gentler tone. “Let the police handle it.” Without waiting for her reply, the lawyer hung up.
Bertie felt like kicking herself. What an idiot you are, bothering the man at work like that. Mac had said to call him anytime, but obviously he hadn’t meant it literally. Clearly she'd been paying more attention to Ellen’s intuitions than they deserved. David Mackenzie was most definitely not “sweet” on her. At this moment, Bertie suspected the man didn’t like her at all. He probably thinks I’m a hopeless, hysterical spinster, she thought bitterly. The way I’ve been behaving lately, he’s probably right.
Chagrined, Bertie dug through her purse, extracted Detective Kulicki’s card, and punched in his number. When her call went straight to voice mail, Bertie left a brief message telling him about the isopropyl nitrite LaShawn may have taken from the Princeton Natural Health Clinic.
After leaving a second message on Kulicki’s answering machine when she got home from work that evening, Bertie poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at her kitchen table to brood. In theory, Mac was right. The job of solving murders should be left to trained professionals. But on the South Side of Chicago, the police were outmanned and outgunned. In the Englewood neighborhood alone, there had been three gang-related shootings in the two days since LaShawn’s death. With a war like that on his hands, she doubted Detective Kulicki would be getting back to her any time soon.
To bring LaShawn’s killer to justice, concerned citizens were going to have to get involved. If Big Mac was too busy to help, Bertie was just going to go it alone. As she poured herself another brandy, Bertie imagined what would happen if she were able to solve the crime. As the police led LaShawn’s killer—whomever it turned out to be—away in handcuffs, she pictured David Mackenzie on his knees, begging her forgiveness.
“I was wrong,” he’d say as tears streamed down his face. “I should have never doubted you, Bertie.”
In order to make this satisfying fantasy come true, however, she was going to have to figure out why LaShawn was murdered. Despite the fact that he was killed in a drive-by shooting, LaShawn Thomas was not and had never been a gang member. Of that, Bertie was positive. But if LaShawn had not been killed in some kind of gang war, then why?
Could his murder have had anything to do with the cache of isopropyl nitrite he found? The answer to that depended on where LaShawn had found the drugs. Supposing, for the sake of argument, that he found them at the Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic. If the clinic was selling isopropyl nitrite illegally, Dr. Momolu Taylor would have a motive for murder. If Alderman Clark was mixed up in Taylor’s Testemaxx racket, he might also have a motive. Either way, the clinic appeared to be the logical place to start asking questions.
Bertie fixed herself a second pot of tea and considered her options. At the Octagon Ball, Taylor had given her the impression he was attracted to her. And at The Loft last Saturday, he’d whispered an invitation in her ear. Perhaps she could get the doctor to lower his guard with the help of a little strategic flirting. Perhaps he’d even be willing to give her a tour of the clinic so she could look around.
All she needed was a suitable pretext for her visit.
Two hours later, while mopping her kitchen floor, Bertie Bigelow got an amazing idea.
Chapter Twenty-One
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 2013—2:00 P.M.
The Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic was located in a one-story, brick building underneath the elevated train tracks at the corner of 63rd and Princeton. Forty years ago, this corner had been the center of a thriving business district. Now, block after block stood vacant. The building and its parking lot were surrounded by a six foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, a silent testament to the danger of doing business in this neighborhood.
The receptionist was clad in a white lab coat and sported an intricate braided hairdo. She barely looked up from her computer as Bertie approached. “Dr. Taylor is not in the office today. It’s Lincoln’s birthday,” she said, sliding the glass window separating them closed.
As the self-proclaimed Land of Lincoln, Illinois was one of only nine states that celebrated Lincoln’s birthday on February 12. Most Chicago businesses remained open, and it had not occurred to Bertie that Taylor would take the day off.
She hesitated in front of the reception window, trying to hide her disappointment. Dressed for maximum impact in a tight fitting, red turtleneck, black leather pants, and a pair of boots with stiletto heels, Bertie had hoped to catch the doctor by surprise.
“Is Mr. Peters around?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard through the window. Now that she’d taken the trouble to get dressed up and drive there, Bertie was reluctant to go home empty-handed.
The girl frowned and opened her window. “What did you say your name was?”
“Bigelow. Bertie Bigelow. I met Mr. Peters at The Loft last week.”
The receptionist raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She slid the window shut, stood, and opened a door that no doubt led into the interior of the clinic, shutting it firmly behind her.
Bertie grabbed a two-month-old copy of People Magazine from a rack against the wall and sat down in one of the red, plastic chairs across from the receptionist’s window. On the other side of the room, an exhausted mother watched her grimy toddlers roll around on the floor.
“You boys stop that right now, you hear?” She leaned over and swatted the boy closest to her. Without missing a beat, the toddler turned and kicked his brother in the knee.
Five minutes later, the receptionist reappeared and waved in Bertie’s direction. She turned and walked briskly down a narrow hallway without waiting to see whether Bertie was following her. Though the building looked squat and ugly from the outside, the interior was deceptively large. Bertie counted at least ten separate treatment rooms. At the end of the hallway, her guide turned left into a corridor that ended in three closed doors. Motioning for Bertie to wait, she tapped lightly on the first door before opening it, ushering Bertie into a surprisingly spacious room. The dark paneled walls were covered with plaques, awards, and photos of Peters and Taylor shaking hands with prominent African American politicians.
Jawann Peters sat leafing through a stack of papers at a large desk in the center of the room. He wore black slacks and a yellow silk shirt that had been partially unbuttoned to showcase the gold Black Power fist dangling from a chain around his neck. Bertie took a seat on the green leather armchair across from his desk.
“I would like to create a scholarship in LaShawn Thomas’s memory,” she said. “To raise the necessary funding, the boy’s grandmother has authorized me to sell space in the boy’s funeral program. The money will be used to help buy laptops for Metro College students interested in becoming doctors. I was hoping your clinic would consider taking out a full-page ad.”
Having come to the end of her pitch, Bertie folded her hands in her lap and willed herself to sit still. Last night her scholarship idea had seemed like a clever pretext for getting into the clinic. But as Peters stared at her, silent and unblinking, Bertie was painfully aware that, unlike Dr. Taylor, this man would not be easily swayed.
“LaShawn Thomas was a cold-blooded murderer,” Peters said. His gravelly voice grated like a broken fan belt. “I’m amazed Metro College would want to put his name on anything. I’m sorry he’s dead, but far as I’m concerned, the little punk got what he deserved.” He leaned back in his chair and stared pensively at the ceiling. After a short pause, he said, “On the other hand, Dr. Taylor and I believe in giving back. That’s what our Upward Rise Youth Internship Program is all about. LaShawn worked as an intern in our program, as you know. If you’d like to talk to the rest of our interns about your scholarship idea, they’re about to start their weekly staff meeting. If they approve the idea, I will recommend we buy an ad—not so much for LaShawn, but to support our community.”
“Just one more quick question,” Bertie said. “On the night he was killed, LaShawn told his chemistry teacher he’d found a case of isopropyl nitrite. Do you have any idea where he may have gotten it?”
Peters raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting it came from here? It would be illegal for us to sell isopropyl nitrite, Bertie. A clinic run by white people might get away with a slap on the wrist for having it. But us? The city would shut us down in a heartbeat.”
Peters had a point. After all, it had taken an antidiscrimination suit masterminded by Delroy Bigelow to get the Princeton Avenue Natural Health Clinic licensed in the first place.
“Let me ask you something,” Peters said, leaning forward. “Did LaShawn ever actually show you any bottles of this chemical?”
Bertie shook her head.
“That’s what I thought,” Peters said with a smug smile. “As usual, the boy lied.”
“Still,” Bertie said, “if you could just check with Dr. Taylor about this, I’d appreciate it.”
Peters studied her with narrowed eyes. “Dr. Taylor is a busy man, Mrs. Bigelow. I doubt he has time for this kind of foolishness. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” He stood up and looked at his watch. “Miss Richie will take you downstairs to the Upward Rise meeting room.”
The receptionist must have been waiting just outside the door. When Peters opened it, she escorted Bertie through a warren of offices and treatment rooms and down a short flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, she opened the door to a large, windowless room. Posters of the rappers 50 Cent, Kanye West, and Lil Wayne decorated the walls. A large boom box in the corner was playing “63rd & Halsted” by 2 Chainz Diss as a dozen teenagers milled around the room. Raising her voice over the thump thump of the music, Miss Richie said, “This is the Upward Rise meeting room.” Having accomplished her mission, she retreated, slamming the door behind her.
Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 12