The Death of Blue Mountain Cat

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “I wasn’t on police business.”

  Neither Reyes nor he could think of anything to say, and there was a long, uncomfortable silence. Anticlimax.

  The moment ended when a white-shirted cop charged out of the back. A sergeant. “What’s going on?” he asked Reyes.

  “Just a little misunderstanding.”

  “What was that about a gun?”

  “Detective Thinnes is armed.”

  The sergeant looked from Reyes to Thinnes to Rob, then shrugged and went back where’d he come from.

  Reyes let her breath out with exaggerated care. “I guess I can save the sermon.”

  Thinnes glanced at Rob, who looked like the survivor of some major disaster. Served him right. “Yeah,” he told Reyes. “Sorry.”

  She must’ve have given Rob the word before Thinnes got there, because she nodded and said, “’Bye, Rob.”

  Rob’s good-bye sounded like a small, scared child’s.

  The only time he’d ever hit the kid was accidentally, while trying to teach him how to defend himself against bullies. Thinnes had been hit as a kid and raised to believe hitting was a parent’s right. But when Rob was small, he’d been afraid to hit him, afraid he’d hurt him. And Rhonda’d been opposed. As the boy grew older, Thinnes discovered he didn’t need to hit him for discipline. Rob had him on such a pedestal that a simple “No!” would almost send him into a depression.

  And seeing the horrifying results, in his job, of parental discipline gone haywire made Thinnes come to accept the idea that parents shouldn’t hit their kids. Ever.

  But there were times you’d like to. Like now.

  As they walked out of the Safety Center, Rob said, “I’m sorry!”

  “Hmpf.”

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  Thinnes stopped. “What’s to say? You know better than this.”

  “She could’ve shot you!”

  “She didn’t. Don’t worry about it. And don’t say anything about it to anybody.”

  “Don’t you even want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Forget it.”

  Thinnes didn’t push. Sooner or later, Rob would tell him. “Why didn’t you call your mother?”

  “I did. They said she was gone to a meeting and wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day.” He started walking again, stopping when he got to the car. He looked in. “Where’s Toby?”

  “Who’s Toby?”

  “Our dog.”

  “We don’t…You mean the one I brought home yesterday? The one Animal Control was supposed to pick up today?”

  “Yes.” Rob seemed almost afraid to say it.

  “Maybe you’d better start talking.”

  “I heard you call them. And after you went up to bed, I called them back and said they didn’t need to come after all. I used redial.”

  “I see. How long did you think it would be before I found out?”

  Rob looked at him out of the corner of his eye; Thinnes could see the wheels turning.

  “Not long. Just until you asked me what I want for Christmas.”

  “What do you want for Christmas?”

  “Toby.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’s cool.” Thinnes waited. “She said, ‘Ask your dad.’”

  Thinnes sighed. “I can’t promise anything. Technically, he belongs to West’s nephew, but I’ll see what I can do. Go wait in the car.”

  Thinnes walked back into the Safety Center, up to the window. “What’s the procedure for bonding out a dog?”

  Fifty-Four

  Ordinarily, Animal Control would take the dog to the pound, where it would be adopted or gassed. Then it wouldn’t be a problem for the police. But Thinnes wanted the dog—God knew Rob asked him for little enough. And he wanted it without compromising any case he’d make in the future against Elvis Hale. If Evanger had been around, Thinnes would have asked him what to do about the situation. He’d have been helpful. Rossi wouldn’t be. So Thinnes asked the ASA who was hanging around the felony review office.

  He was a new guy. “Jesus,” he said, “That’s property law—not my bailiwick. You’re Thinnes, aren’t you? They warned me about you.”

  Thinnes was beginning to wonder who “they” were.

  When Abner West’s building super didn’t return three calls, Thinnes decided he’d have to resolve things face-to-face.

  “Have you been able to contact West’s nephew?” he asked the super when the man opened the door. He could see him thinking about how to answer and added, “Just tell me the truth,” before he could think of a plausible lie.

  “Yeah, well. He was here. He didn’t seem too surprised that the old fart croaked.” Thinnes waited. “I axed him what he was gonna do with the old man’s stuff. He said I could have it all.”

  “You happen to get that in writing?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact.”

  “Mind if I see it?”

  The super shrugged and went over to a table, against the wall, that was piled high with papers and obviously served as a desk. He found the one Thinnes wanted and brought it to him.

  Thinnes looked it over before saying, “I’d like to borrow this so I can make a copy.”

  “Sure. If you gimme a receipt.”

  Thinnes nodded. “What’re you planning to do with the stuff?”

  “I got this nigger’ll take everything I can’t use for what he can get for it.”

  “You mind if I look it over one more time?”

  The super shrugged and walked back to rummage through the stuff on the desk. He came up with a key, which he tossed to Thinnes.

  “What about the dog?” Thinnes asked.

  “What…? Hell, I thought you guys were gonna take care of that.”

  “Well, I guess technically it’s yours.”

  “Technically, I don’t want nothin’ to do with it.”

  “You mind putting that in writing—in case there’s any question later about why we took it?”

  “Yeah, okay.” He got another piece of paper from his desk and scribbled, “I don’t want West’s dog. I gave it to the cops.” He held it up for Thinnes to read. “That okay?”

  Thinnes looked at it and shrugged. “I guess so. Sign it.”

  The super scribbled his signature across the bottom of the paper and handed it to Thinnes. “If I ain’t here when you’re done, shove the key under my door. And if you take anything, I want a receipt.”

  The apartment had been searched. It hadn’t been tossed, but whoever’d gone over the place had been thorough and hadn’t tried to hide what he’d been doing. Thinnes didn’t find anything new. Until he was leaving.

  In a corner of the filthy living room, where it would have landed if someone missed the wastebasket with it, he found a small, balled-up paper. Instinct—or good habits—made him put on gloves before he picked it up. It turned out to be a liquor-store receipt—dated the day the ME figured West’d croaked—for the cheap wine he’d half finished before he died. Thinnes put it in an evidence bag and wrote the super a receipt.

  When he got back to Western and Belmont, Oster was in the squad room. He had the Redbird file spread out on a table and was playing Thomas Redbird’s answering-machine tape on a little portable tape recorder. He looked marginally better.

  “You just can’t stay away from this place, can you Carl?” Thinnes asked him.

  “Huh. You know how many talk shows they got on TV now?”

  “Who said you gotta watch TV when you’re home sick?”

  “My wife’s addicted. What’re we doin’ today?”

  “Why don’t you keep doing what you’re doing? I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up on the West case.”

  “I thought that was cut-and-dried. According to the autopsy report, you were right about his drinking finally catching up with him.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder about that.”

  Thinnes got out the Abner West file and shuffled through the
photographs of the scene. Even at eight by ten, the shot he wanted wasn’t big enough for the detail he needed, but when he studied it under a magnifying glass, he was able to find the balled-up receipt next to the wastebasket. Bingo! He took the receipt downstairs, to one of the District Nineteen evidence technicians, who dusted it for prints. The black print powder raised what looked like a clear thumb print from the paper’s surface, so Thinnes asked the tech to run the print through AFIS. When he got back up stairs, Oster hailed him.

  “Hey, Thinnes, listen to this.”

  He turned on the tape recorder and Thinnes heard: “Redbird, if you don’t get this damn truck out of my yard, I’m gonna sell it for scrap!”

  “Be nice if we knew who’s talking,” Thinnes said.

  “Some guy named Dietz. He left another message earlier. I thought I’d start with the yellow pages—see what I can do. If that doesn’t work, I may just take a little spin around Redbird’s neighborhood. It makes sense he wouldn’t park it too far from where he lived. Damn, I wish we’d found his address book!”

  “Probably left it in his truck.”

  While Oster started trying to locate Dietz by phone, Thinnes got to work on another open case. Other detectives came into the squad room and went out. The coffeepot ran dry and there was a discussion between Swann and Ryan about whose turn it was to refill it. Thinnes got tired of the wrangling and set up a fresh pot himself. At some point, Oster took off. He was gone two hours. When he came back, he was excited. “I found the truck,” he announced. “Three blocks from his apartment.”

  “Nice work,” Thinnes said.

  “You were right about the address book—in the truck. I’ve got it right here.” He held up a plastic evidence bag containing a brown leather book smudged with fingerprint powder.

  “They get anything off that?”

  “No, but they did get a few prints off the truck. Let’s see what we got here.” He took the book out of the bag and began to page through it.

  Thinnes got out of his chair to read over his shoulder. Most of the entries seemed to be companies Redbird had done business with. Oster pointed out a few names—people who’d left messages on the answering machine. When he got to the Bs, he pointed to a familiar entry: BISTI.

  “Bingo! You believe in coincidence, Thinnes?”

  “Sure. And Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy. Keep going. Let’s see who else we recognize.”

  They recognized two other names, Kent and Wingate. Both had phone numbers but no address.

  Oster asked, “Which Kent do you s’pose this is?”

  Remembering the painting in Bisti’s studio, Thinnes laughed. He paged back to the H section and pointed to a number penciled in without a name. “Let’s see if we can find out who this belongs to.”

  “I’ll do it.” Oster reached for the phone.

  Thinnes flipped to the back of the book and pointed to another number, in the W section, without a name attached. “This one, too.”

  The phone rang. Once. Swann called out, “For you Thinnes.”

  Thinnes picked up the nearest phone and hit the lighted button on the console. “Thinnes.”

  “Thinnes,” a familiar voice said. “Got a match for you on the prints on that liquor-store receipt. One Elvis Hale. An individual well known to the police.”

  “Thanks, Mabley.” Thinnes hung up the phone and turned to Oster. “It looks like it was Elvis who bought West his last drink.”

  There were four other Violent Crimes detectives in the room, a few minutes later, when Rossi stopped in front of Thinnes on his way to the coffeemaker.

  “Have you had that Indian’s wife in here for questioning yet?” Rossi demanded. He obviously meant Lauren Bisti. Redbird hadn’t had a wife.

  “No,” Thinnes said.

  “Why the hell not? Any rookie knows—”

  “According to two different shrinks, she’s suffering from trauma-induced amnesia,” Thinnes said. “She doesn’t remember a thing about it, and any further upset could make her break down completely.”

  “That’s bullshit! She’s got the money to buy a hundred doctors.”

  “One of the shrinks is our own department consultant.”

  “You get her in here. That’s an order!”

  A wave of anger surged through Thinnes, making him feel almost light-headed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he was a rookie, that sort of officious stupidity would have sent him through the roof. Now he tried hard to not sweat it, not to let Rossi see his rage. “No,” he said. “You want her pushed over the edge, you do it. And you can explain it to the brass when Royko or Bob Greene gets hold of the story.” Thinnes shook his head. “I’ve done all the usual things and followed up on all the leads. And I’m watching the mouse holes to see what ventures out. I can wait—there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a statute of limitations on my patience and you just exceeded it.”

  “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it, banish me to working days?”

  “You could get time off for insubordination.”

  “Oh, Christ! Please no! Not that!”

  Rossi pointed to the door of the squad room. “Get out! Right now, get out!”

  Thinnes had pushed enough suspects to the point where Rossi was to know that the man was very near his breaking point. He didn’t like Rossi, even a little, but he didn’t want to be the one who pushed him over. He got up and walked out. He was barely through the doorway when he heard Rossi demand, “Where the hell are you going?”

  Swann’s muffled voice replied, “Goin’ out for some air.”

  Fifteen seconds later, Oster walked out of the room, followed by Swann, Ryan, and Viernes—all the Violent Crimes detectives who’d been in the squad room. Oster stopped as he came even with Thinnes, the others nodded or shrugged but kept moving, heading for the locker room or the stairs.

  Oster said, “Effing desk jockey!”

  “Peter Principle,” Thinnes said. “Don’t give him another thought.”

  “How’m I s’posed to do that?”

  “If he yells at you for anything, just tell him it was my idea.”

  Fifty-Five

  The unidentified phone number in the H section of Thomas Redbird’s phone book turned out to be that of a Teresa Moreno, address on Western. Ms. Moreno didn’t answer her phone and didn’t have an answering machine. Assured of anonymity, and under the vague threat of being hauled down to Western and Belmont for questioning, several of her neighbors confided that she’d gone to stay with unidentified relatives—maybe in Pilsen, maybe Mexico—until her abusive boyfriend forgot about her. The boyfriend’s name? Elvis.

  Thinnes left his card with a request for Ms. Moreno to get in touch. “Maybe we can help her with her problem.”

  The second odd number in Redbird’s book was issued to Blank Storage on the near North Side. Located in a changing area, it was an old factory built when everything in the city was made of brick. It had been divided into a dozen small, self-contained warehouses, each with its own loading dock. The windows were protected by decades of grime and by chain-link grilles. The whole building and its parking lot were surrounded by a healthy chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A small sign near the gate stated: BLANK STORAGE M–F 8–5, S 8–12, CLOSED SUN.

  The owner-manager was Blank. Male Cauc, two-hundred-plus pounds, brown eyes, thinning brown hair, missing right index finger. He recognized Thomas Redbird’s picture immediately and also IDed Oster’s Polaroid of the truck.

  “Who does he work for?” Oster asked.

  “No one. He’s independent.”

  “Who does he deliver to?”

  “No one. He’s got a key.”

  “I meant, what company?”

  “Mount Taylor Distributors.”

  “Where have we heard that name recently?” Thinnes asked Oster.

  “Somebody we interviewed in the Bisti case. I can’t remember who, but I can sure look it up when we get ba
ck.” Thinnes nodded. “What does he deliver?” Oster asked Blank.

  “Damned if I know.” They waited to see if he’d elaborate. “Contract says they can’t store any flammables, incendiaries, or explosives, or caustics, acids, radioactives, or controlled substances. Also stolen property or foodstuff unless it’s in ratproof containers. That pretty much eliminates foodstuff.”

  “That’s pretty comprehensive,” Oster said. “What’s it leave?”

  “Search me. But I haven’t had a vacancy in years.”

  “You ever do any inspections?”

  “Nah. Unless I notice something suspicious—like a funny smell.”

  “I notice you got hours posted. What happens if someone’s got a delivery after hours?”

  Blank shrugged. “They can make arrangements with me ahead of time, or I got a security company that has the key. They’ll open up, hang around, and close up for fifty bucks an hour. Most of the tenants just keep business hours.”

  “When was the last time you saw Redbird?” Thinnes asked.

  Blank thought about it. “Day before Thanksgiving. He dropped off a load.”

  “Where’s the office of this Mount Taylor outfit?” Oster asked.

  Blank shrugged again. “Some P.O. box. I got it in the office along with the lease.”

  “Mind if we see?”

  Blank hesitated.

  “We can do this two ways,” Thinnes told him. “You can help us out here—save everyone a hassle. Or we can get a subpoena.”

  “If we have to do that,” Oster said, “you’re gonna have fun trying to convince us you’re not part if it.”

  “What did Redbird do?”

  “Got himself killed.”

  “Oh, shit! C’mon. Let me show you what I got.”

  Back at Area Three, it took Oster all afternoon on the phone to track down Mount Taylor Distributors. When he finally put the receiver down, he turned to Thinnes. “Bingo!” Ferris and Viernes, who were sitting nearby, looked interested.

  “Bisti was one of the owners,” Thinnes said.