“What can I do?”
“We need to find out who’s got it in for her.”
“Yeah. Ah…Jesus! I don’t know. Joanne’s the last person…You sure it’s not a mistake—maybe someone trying to get her neighbor and went to the wrong address?”
Minorini shook his head. “Do you have any enemies who might hurt your sister to get back at you?”
“No, of course not. My enemies might try biological warfare—er—computer viruses—or sic their lawyers on me, not—Jesus! Can you protect her?”
“We’ll do our best,” Minorini said. What if someone up the chain of command had decided to use Joanne Lessing for bait?
“She doesn’t know who?”
“We asked her, and she said she doesn’t have any enemies. But women sometimes lie to shield abusive partners.”
“Not Joanne. And I don’t think Howie…I mean, he’s a jerk but—” He gestured, knocking over the framed 8x10 photo Minorini had been staring at the back of, allowing Minorini to get a glimpse—a group with guns. He beat Schroeder to the pick up by a heartbeat, backing away far enough so that Schroeder would have to come over the desk or around it to get possession. Plain view—sort of. But he’d bet it would hold up in court.
The picture showed Schroeder and Joanne as young adults with a younger man and an older one. “My dad,” Schroeder said. “With Joanne and my brother Allen and me. The only time he ever got us all to go hunting with him.”
Minorini handed the picture back, then gave Shroeder his card. “If you think of anything that might help us, however improbable, call me.”
Schroeder nodded. “Just take care of my sister.”
“I will.”
Allen Schroeder was a house painter, North Shore style. That is, he and his wife ran a decorating business out of their Oak Park home. Neither of them could imagine Joanne with an enemy. Nor did they have any enemies of their own. After conducting a brief telephone credit check, Minorini believed them.
L.A. was hot, even in December. Minorini had forgotten how hot. He wished he’d worn a lighter jacket. He wished he could take his jacket off, but then he’d have had to carry his gun in his briefcase, and that wouldn’t do.
He recognized Tagmier immediately, though he hadn’t seen him in years. Even at 45, Tagmier looked like a special agent. After they shook hands, Tagmier handed him a folder with the neatly typed label LESSING, HOWARD. “You can look it over on the way,” he said. “Lessing ought to be at the office by the time we get there.”
“You had him picked up?”
“We asked him to assist us. Guy in his position can’t afford to piss us off.”
Minorini didn’t have a problem with that. After Tagmier filled him in, he was even less inclined to worry about Howard Lessing.
“If you want, I can get you a transcript of his divorce proceedings,” Tagmier said.
“Just summarize for me.”
“He moved here from Chicago with his wife, Joanne, right after law school. I guess she basically put him through. He wasn’t exactly a Rhodes scholar. He went to work for the Public Defender’s office after he passed the bar—on his second try. Soon as he got some trial experience and made a few contacts, he went solo. The wife went to work for him as secretary and clerk until he got successful enough to afford paid help.”
“What about the wife?”
“Nobody seems to know much. Apparently she was quiet, mousy, always deferred to him. Till one day she must’ve had enough. Went out and hired a divorce lawyer.”
“Messy divorce?”
Tagmier shrugged. “Not very. Either she had a hell of a lawyer or she threatened to tell where the bodies were buried. He let her take the kid and leave the state. Most guys fight that even if they don’t give a damn about the kid.”
“What else did she get?”
“Two years of maintenance while she finished her BFA, nominal child support till the kid turns twenty-one. And he pays for the kid’s education through graduate school.”
“Not overly generous considering what he probably makes.”
Tagmier shook his head. “He’s mortgaged to the hilt. And don’t forget, he’s got an image to maintain.”
“He a player?”
Tagmier laughed. “In his dreams. He makes most of his money from real estate commissions.”
“Tell me about your ex-wife, Mr. Lessing,” Minorini said.
Lessing laughed nervously. “What, she rob a bank or something?”
“Her life’s been threatened.”
Lessing gestured time out. “Hey, that was a long time ago!”
“What was?”
“If you don’t know…Nothing. When people get divorced they say things…”
“Why did you let her move out of state?”
“Are you kidding? I wanted as much space between me and the bitch as I could get. Europe would have been even better.”
“And your son?”
Lessing softened briefly, then shrugged. He didn’t answer the question.
“Did Joanne have something on you? Or threaten you?”
“Yeah. She said if I didn’t let them go, I’d end up like that asshole, Bobbit—with parts missing.”
“Cut the crap, Lessing! Unless maybe you’d like me to start looking for whatever she has on you.”
That got to him. “Nothing! She threatened to turn me into the IRS for tax evasion. Nothing to it, but I didn’t need the hassle. And frankly, at the time I couldn’t afford to hire another lawyer. You met my son?”
“Yeah. Nice kid. Hard to believe you’re really his old man.”
Thirty-Four
Joanne didn’t see Paul Minorini again for three days. She was reading in the living room after watching the 10:00 P.M. news when she heard the back door open. The alarm didn’t sound, and she’d watched Megan set it before turning in, so she went to investigate.
Paul put down a gym bag and reset the alarm as if he lived there. Then he noticed her and said hello. He looked hung over, but still asked, “How’re you doing?”
She felt an overwhelming awkwardness—like a high school wallflower suddenly asked “How’s it going?” by the varsity quarterback. She shrugged. “Have you?…”
“Found anything?” He shook his head. “Not for want of trying. I even interviewed your ex.”
“Howie? In L.A.?” He nodded. She couldn’t resist laughing. The thought of Howie on the receiving end was delicious.
She looked for Paul’s reaction—he wasn’t amused. She realized he must be tired. “I’m sorry, but you should’ve asked.”
“We have to check out everyone.”
“You look beat. Have you eaten?”
“Just airline food. Hours ago.”
“There’s some lasagna left. And salad.”
He brightened. He picked up his bag and led the way to the kitchen, where he dropped the bag on a chair and pulled another out for her. “Sean asleep?”
“Are you kidding? Teenagers are nocturnal. He’s upstairs OD-ing on cable.”
“Megan?”
“She may be asleep. She went upstairs an hour ago. I don’t think she’s feeling well.”
He nodded. “An abscessed tooth. She asked to have someone spell her so she can go to the dentist tomorrow. I’m it.”
“Funny she didn’t mention it.”
“She wouldn’t.” He opened the fridge and took out the covered dishes they’d stored the leftovers in. “Ordinarily, they have female marshals guard women, but things are really tight this week—lots going down. And one of the women is out on maternity leave.”
“Do they ordinarily put witnesses up in mansions?”
He grinned, and she was struck again by how attractive he was. If only…
“This isn’t a mansion. By North Shore standards, it’s practically low-income housing.”
She watched as he loaded a plate, then helped himself to salad while he nuked the pasta. He took out a Killian’s when he put the salad bowl back. It was clear he
knew his way around a kitchen. This kitchen.
“Get you something?” he asked.
She pointed to the lager. “One of those?”
She waited until he was nearly finished before asking, “How’s Howie?”
“If he had anything to do with planting your bomb, he’s the best actor in Tinseltown.”
“If Howie had the nerve to commit violence, he’d have killed me during the divorce.”
“So I gathered. What ever possessed you to marry him?”
“Didn’t you ever make a dumb mistake when you were young?”
He took a long pull of the Killian’s and gave her a dazzling smile. “A few.”
Megan didn’t come back. She was so feverish the next morning Minorini sent her off in a cab and phoned her office to call her in sick. They told him they couldn’t replace her until next Thursday when Carver would be free. Three calls later, Minorini was on loan to the Marshals’ Service.
He spent the next few days making follow-up calls and reading reports, and a lot of time playing video games with Sean. The kid didn’t complain about their situation, but in his place, Minorini would’ve gone nuts.
As far as the games went, Sean was a fair shot and a mean strategist. And he had the advantage of familiarity.
When they got tired of Quake and Seventh Guest, they played Monopoly and Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit with Joanne. She made Sean watch the Discovery and History channels while Minorini was working, insisting that “If he can’t be in school, at least he can do something educational.”
In his salad days—the phrase made Minorini think of Dylan Thomas—The force that through the green fuse drives the flower. He’d wanted children. He’d envied his sister’s stable relationship. Then his wife had left him and his sister’s marriage began to seem like a life term, or at least an indeterminate sentence. Sour grapes. Cognitive dissonance, the shrinks called it. Your mind turned what you couldn’t have into something you didn’t want. Now he found himself wondering again what it would be like to have kids. His sister’s life didn’t seem any more appealing, but it would be nice to try for something, nice to share something with someone.
Enough mind-fucking! He must be really horny if a witness could get his thinking so screwed up. A witness for Christ’s sake!
If he’d met her twenty years ago, when he was so-to-speak a virgin—But twenty years ago he’d never have noticed her—not flashy enough, too quiet.
He sighed. That was life. Sometimes your timing sucked.
Sean slept in on Minorini’s third morning. After breakfast, Minorini lingered over coffee with Joanne. She’d been doing most of the cooking and had helped when he insisted on taking his turn. She’d explained it as “I’m not too good at doing nothing.”
“You know,” she said suddenly, “Salman Rushdie never went into the witness protection program. I can’t imagine the mob being more ruthless and relentless than those Islamic terrorists.”
“True, but Rushdie dropped out of sight for quite a while. And besides, he has the money to buy a lot of security. The Marshal’s Service isn’t going to foot the bill, and I haven’t heard that you’ve written any international best-sellers.”
“Then I return to my original suggestion—let’s send Sean to my friend’s and set a trap for these creeps. I’ll be bait.”
“Even if I were willing to entertain the idea, I’d never sell my boss or Haskel on it.”
“You think I’m crazy, but you’re too polite to say so.”
“I don’t think hope is crazy, but you’re too optimistic.”
“You’re not as cynical as agent Haskel, are you?”
“Oh, I’m every bit as cynical. I just wasn’t raised to believe rudeness is ever justified.”
She took a sip of her coffee and looked out the window.
He had a sudden urge to hold her—which he resisted. He said, “What made you finally decide to leave your husband?”
“I noticed the horrible example he was setting for our son. Sean was getting too old for me to keep pretending he wouldn’t notice.”
“What sort of bad example?”
“Oh, bragging about how he inflated his hours and underreported his income, and pulled off insider trading deals.”
“So he’s a crook.”
“They’re going to screw him in the ground when he dies. But if I’d turned him in, he’d have gone to jail and I wouldn’t even have child support.”
“How do you stand that? I’d have shot him.”
“I didn’t have a gun.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious.”
Minorini gave her a look.
“Seriously, I got Sean. Howie thinks the one who dies with the most toys wins. He saw Citizen Kane but he still doesn’t get it.”
“Burning Daylight,” Minorini said. She raised her eyebrows. “A Jack London story about a Citizen Kane type who finally does get it.”
The next morning, Minorini took inventory. They were low on milk and beer, fruit and Classico. He’d asked Joanne to make a list of what she needed, and she’d dutifully noted laundry soap, toothpaste and tampons. Then she’d gone to get Sean’s list.
He took his coffee into the dining room and sat facing the window that overlooked the backyard. It was a typical Chicago winter day—overcast, gray, and cold. Not raining or snowing. Waiting. As they were.
It was the easiest surveillance he’d ever done. And the hardest. The more time he spent with her, the more impressed he was with Joanne’s guts, and good humor, and ability to make the best of things. More than that, he could feel a mutual attraction intensifying between them.
Proximity, he told himself. She was theoretically available and embodied everything he was starving for. But he had no illusions. Any feelings she had for him were due purely to Stockholm syndrome.
She appeared in the doorway as if conjured by his thoughts. She’d put on one of Sean’s sweaters, a size too large, with big front pockets. She pulled a paper from one and handed it to him with a smile. “Sean made me promise I wouldn’t look at this. ‘Guy stuff,’ he said.”
Minorini glanced at Sean’s list. The magazine title sandwiched between Thrasher and Wired probably explained the secrecy.
“You let him read Playboy?”
She reached for the paper. “Let me see that.”
He snatched it away. “Didn’t you promise?” He put the list in his pocket. “You think of anything else you need?”
“I did, as a matter of fact.” She took a paper from the other pocket and sat down at the far end of the table, facing the same way. “If I had black-and-white film and some supplies, I could take pictures and develop them in the bathroom.”
She was looking out at the yard, but he didn’t think she was seeing it. He reached for the list.
Joanne held it out, then withdrew it before he could take it. “I guess that would be silly. There’s no point. I couldn’t print the negatives without an enlarger. I suppose I might as well ask for my darkroom.” She crumpled the paper and lobbed it at the waste-basket, made it in with a rim shot.
“I promised Sean a game of Quake,” she said, getting up. She didn’t seem angry or resentful, just resigned as she walked away.
She didn’t deserve this! He suppressed a flash of rage, then resisted the urge to go after her, to offer the comfort of the lie—that everything would turn out well.
He couldn’t remember feeling so strongly about his ex-wife. He’d met Carrie in a bar ten years earlier, an upwardly mobile professional with a good line and a great figure. She could be dynamite in bed when she wanted to be—which got to be less and less often as time went by. She’d been attracted to the FBI mystique originally, and ultimately repelled by the steel-jacketed control that was its genesis. When she decided she didn’t want the man behind the façade, she’d dumped him.
John Carver arrived Wednesday night while Joanne was helping Minorini load the dishes in the washer. With his newspaper, laptop and suitcase, Carter
looked more like a jet-lagged businessman than a marshal. Before he would let Minorini show him to a room, he asked to use the kitchen table.
He spread his newspaper out over one end and got a small plastic container from his suitcase. Opening the case, he took out rags, small bottle brushes and a bottle of gun oil. He removed the 9-mm Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster, dropped the magazine, and stripped the round from the chamber. As he started breaking the gun down, he said, “I’m so jammed up today I didn’t have time to clean it.”
“Did you get a chance to eat?” Joanne asked. She’d leaned back against the counter and crossed her hands over her chest, tucking her fingers in her armpits.
Recalling his own arrival, Minorini felt a stab of jealousy. Stupid. Joanne was hopelessly domestic about some things. Like feeding people.
Carver smiled. “I ate at the hospital with my wife.”
“Is she sick?” Joanne asked.
“No, expecting. We have a weekly Lamaze class at Evanston Hospital, and I don’t have time to go home after work so we eat in the hospital cafeteria.”
“When’s she due?”
“Any day. But it’s our first. The doctor said it may be late.”
There was a long silence. Carver cleaned his gun; Minorini and Joanne watched.
Finally Joanne said, “Did you ever have to shoot anyone?”
“No thank God…It changes you.”
Minorini said, “You’ve never killed anyone?”
Carver shook his head. “I had a buddy when I first joined the service, a real macho type. He killed a man. A righteous shooting, but he couldn’t forgive himself. He was killed when he hesitated during a subsequent incident. It’s not like most people think from seeing assholes mow ’em down on TV and just walk away.”
“And if you do learn you can do it,” Minorini added, “you’re on the slippery slope. You’re willing to entertain the possibility of killing as an option.”
Joanne seemed to have a startling thought. She froze for a minute. Then she said, “Are you speaking from experience?”
The Fall Page 12