THE CHICAGO WAY
MICHAEL HARVEY
In memory of:
Michael Marchetti
2002–2005
Fallon O’Toole McIntyre
2002–2004
Matthew Christian Larkin
1958–1999
It is hard to contend against anger. For whatever it craves, it buys with its life.
—HERACLITUS
You wanna get Capone? Here’s how you get him. He pulls a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. That’s the Chicago way….
—SEAN CONNERY AS OFFICER JIM MALONE, THE UNTOUCHABLES
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Author’s Note
A Note on the Author
Also Available By Michael Harvey
By the Same Author
Imprint
Chapter 1
I was on the second floor of a three-story walk-up on Chicago’s North Side. Outside the Hawk blew hard off the lake and flattened itself against the bay windows. I didn’t care. I had my feet up, a cup of Earl Grey, and my own list of the ten greatest moments in Cubs history.
For the first half hour I was stuck on number one. Then I realized the greatest moments at Clark and Addison are always about to be. With that I settled in and mapped out the starting rotation for next year’s world champions. That’s when I saw him.
Actually, I sensed John Gibbons before I saw him. But that’s just how it was with Gibbons. From waist to shoulders he was of one dimension, that being massive. His head sat on a bulldog neck, with short ears and gray hair clipped close. His nose showed the back rooms of Chicago’s alleys. His eyes were still clear, cool, and blue. He cornered me with a look and smiled.
“Hello, Michael.”
Gibbons had been retired from the force five years now. I hadn’t seen him in four, but it didn’t matter. We had some history. He shook off the rain and threw a chair toward my desk. He sat down as if he belonged there and always had. I put the Cubs away, pulled open the bottom drawer, and found a bottle of Powers Irish. John took it straight. Just to be sociable, I gave Sir Earl a jolt.
“What’s up, John?”
He hesitated. For the first time I noticed his suit, uncomfortably cheap, and his tie, a clip-on. In his hands he twisted a soft felt hat.
“Got a case for you, Michael.”
He always called me Michael, which was okay since that was my name. I didn’t want to derail him, but my curiosity held sway.
“Jesus, John, who’s dressing you these days?”
The big man reddened a bit and looked down at the outfit.
“Pretty bad, huh? The wife. Did you know the wife, Michael?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know anything about John that wasn’t three years old. His personal file at that time read WIDOWER. His first wife, an Irishwoman from Donegal, got a message from her doctor one day about an X-ray. Two weeks later, she was gone. I had sent a card and given John a call.
“The wife, the second wife that is, she left about a year ago,” Gibbons said. “She was a younger type, you know.”
John always had a weakness for them. Women, that is. It’s been my experience if you have that sort of weakness, the younger ones tend only to aggravate the situation.
“So you been dressing yourself?” I said.
“For some time.”
“And you get all dressed up to come here?”
A nod.
“To see me?”
Another nod.
“I got a case, Michael.”
“So I gather.”
I freshened his drink and poured a bit more hot water into my mug.
“You remember 1997.”
“Before my time,” I said.
“Not by much. Anyway, it was Christmas Eve. I had the windows rolled down. You remember I used to keep the windows down. Even when it was cold. Well, I’m driving the squad by myself. Down in South Chicago.”
I knew South Chicago. A collection of warehouses and whorehouses. Dry docks and rough trade. A nasty bit of Chicago, crumbling at the edges and blending into Indiana gray.
“I hear a shot,” John said. “Roll around a corner and see this girl running down the middle of the street. Head-to-toe blood. The guy is right behind her. He’s got a .38 in one hand and a knife in the other. Sticking her as they run.”
John closed his eyes for a moment and left the room. When he opened them, he was back. I didn’t feel so comfortable anymore.
“Couple decades on the job, Michael. Never saw anything close to it. I get out of the car, she’s coming right at me. I just catch the both of them. He’s on top and I can still hear that knife. Made like a suction noise. I reach around with my piece and put it to his head. For the first time he registers me and stops.”
“None of this is ringing a bell, John.”
“It should ring a bell, huh?”
I nodded.
“Well, let me finish. So we are all three on the ground. Me with the gun to his head and the girl in between us. Her face was about six inches from mine. I could smell the death on her, you know?”
I knew.
“So we untangle. I put the guy on the ground and cuff him. He says nothing. I slap him around a bit. Still nothing. I look at the girl. She’s cut up pretty good, stabbed more than once in the chest. I get a pulse and call for the medics.”
John got up and walked across to the window.
“Hot in here, isn’t it?”
John cracked the window.
“It’s thirty-five outside with freezing rain and gusts,” I said.
“Gusts?” His shoulders turned my way and the rest followed.
“That’s what they called them,” I said. “Gusts. Gusts ain’t good.”
John left the window open and walked back to the chair.
“So we get this girl into an ambulance. She was a looker, Michael. Did I tell you that?”
I was waiting for that part. “Let me guess. You fell for her.”
“Jesus, Michael. She was covered in blood and half-dead. Besides, she was just a kid.”
“Go on.”
“A
nyway, I find out she was running from his car. It’s a shit-box Chevy idling in the middle of the street. I pop the trunk and what do I find?”
“Tell me.”
“Sheets of plastic. Rolls of the stuff. And rope. Lots of rope. I open the driver’s door. There’s plenty of blood. Under both seats, I find custom-made carriers. In one, he’s got a bulldog shotgun. In the other, he’s got a machete strapped up there. Over both visors, two more leather fittings. One for the gun he had. The other for the knife.”
“Not the guy’s first dance?”
“No sir,” John said. “So I take him downtown and throw him in the slam. It’s past midnight, I figure I can sort him out tomorrow.”
“And?”
“I come in the next day. He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“The chief then. You didn’t know him. Dave Belmont.”
“Heard the name,” I said.
“Nice guy, career cop. Dead now. Didn’t ever want any beefs. Just keep your mouth shut and put your time in. That kind of guy. Anyway, he takes me into the office. Says forget about it. Says the guy is gone and it’s over. Never happened. Then he gives me this.”
From his pocket John Gibbons took out a piece of green velvet. Clipped inside was a silver Police Medal. The highest award a Chicago cop can get. Score one and your career is made.
“Those are hard to come by, John.”
“Part of the deal. I get the medal, a pay raise, and promotion. In return … ”
“You forget about it.”
“That’s right. So I did.”
“And nine years later you want to do what?”
“Well, I really don’t want to do anything. But then I got this.”
From his other pocket John Gibbons pulled a letter.
“And what is that?”
“It’s a letter.”
“I can see that.”
“From the girl. The girl from that night.”
“From nine years ago?”
“Yeah.”
“She didn’t die, I take it.”
“We need to help her, Michael.”
“We … ”
“I poked around a bit.” Gibbons shrugged. “Didn’t really get anywhere.”
As a detective, my old partner was a good piece of muscle. Someone to break down doors, even if he had no idea what might be on the other side.
“You’re the best I ever worked with,” Gibbons continued. “You know it. I know it. Everyone on the force knew it. If you can help out, I’d be grateful.”
The Irishman threw an envelope across the table. I opened it up and enjoyed the warm feeling money can sometimes give a person. Then I looked up and across the desk.
“Tell me about the girl,” I said.
Gibbons began to talk. I picked up the letter and, reluctantly, began to read.
Chapter 2
The phone rang at three-thirty the next morning. I didn’t want the phone to be ringing at three-thirty. But there it was.
I reached for the receiver and knocked the whole thing onto the floor. Then I got up to turn on the light and hit my toe on the steel footing of the nightstand. I cursed appropriately and picked up the receiver. The voice at the other end was breathy, but one I didn’t recognize.
“Mr. Kelly?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Is this Mr. Kelly?”
I answered who else would it be, and wondered about the face attached to the voice.
“Mr. Kelly, this is Lisa Bange calling from Channel 6 Action News.”
Three questions buzzed through the early morning fog I call my brain: What kind of woman has a last name of Bange? Why was Channel 6 Action News calling me at three-thirty in the morning? And what kind of woman has a last name of Bange?
“Hi, Lisa Bange,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“We are calling to get a comment—”
Lisa stopped and I heard some voices argue at the other end of the line.
“Mr. Kelly?”
“Still here,” I said.
A bated Bange breath.
“Sorry,” she said.
“So, Lisa. Here we are. Just you, me, and three-thirty in the morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Kelly. I’m calling to see if you have any comment on the shooting death of a Mr. John Gibbons.”
I keep a copy of the Iliad in the original Greek on the dresser next to my bed. Beside it is Richmond Lattimore’s translation. The only translation worth owning as far as I can see. Behind these volumes sits a nine-millimeter Beretta in a holster. Lattimore might not appreciate the subtlety; Odysseus certainly would. I checked the clip on the Beretta, then the safety. Lisa kept talking.
“He was shot twice. In the stomach, I think. Down by Navy Pier. But not in the water. Mr. Kelly?”
“Yes, Lisa.”
“Well, your business card was found on his person. And so we just thought … ”
“Where you located, Lisa?”
She seemed surprised. Like everyone in the city of Chicago knew where Channel 6 Action News was.
“Three hundred North McClurg Court.”
“Do you have footage of the crime scene?” I said.
“B-roll? Sure.”
“I’ll give you a statement, and you let me look at what you have. Deal?”
Lisa was in over her head. But I knew the voices were there. After a moment she came back on the line.
“Deal.”
“See you, Lisa.”
I hung up the phone and got dressed.
Chapter 3
The first thing I noticed about Channel 6 was the slant. Not an editorial slant. Channel 6 was built on a landfill and in the process of sliding into Lake Michigan. The smart guys among us would deem both landfill and the notion of sliding into an abyss appropriate analogies for Chicago’s local news. Not being a smart guy, I was there for Lisa Bange.
Not that I didn’t care about John Gibbons. I did. But he was dead, and nothing I could do would change that. On the other hand, I was out of my bed at four o’clock in the morning, walking down a sideways plastic hallway, on my way toward a newsroom full of people I would either hate or despise. I would view the tape and try to get a line on Gibbons’ killer before the cops dumped the whole mess. I figured that was more than enough for someone I hadn’t seen in four years before yesterday. I was doing my best. And if Lisa Bange happened along the way, so be it.
She was sitting in a cubicle at the end of the hall, drinking what looked like coffee and smoking what looked like a cigarette.
She was five feet eight and great-looking in that newsroom sort of way. Picture long sweaters and jeans that hang pretty well. Long-limbed and athletic, with loose brown hair and Irish skin the color of cream. She was worth getting out of bed for. She also wasn’t Lisa Bange.
“Down there,” she pointed.
“You’re not Lisa Bange, are you?”
“Down there.” She spoke without taking her eyes off the newspaper. Tribune crossword.
“Seven down,” I said. “Five-letter word for nonsense. Try hooey.”
She lifted her blues from the accursed ink. “Hooey, huh?” I nodded. She scribbled.
“It fits.”
“What can I say? I’m good with words.”
She pointed again. “See how good you are down the hall.” At least this time she smiled.
Down the hall was the Channel 6 newsroom. For four o’clock on a Sunday morning, it had the action thing down pretty well. I was directed to a long row of gray cubicles. Inside the last one I found a thin set of shoulders, hunched over a TV monitor, stopwatch in hand.
“Lisa Bange,” I said.
A large pair of 1950s cat-eye glasses appeared over the top of the TV. Directly underneath said glasses was a pallid face twisted into a silent shriek, masquerading as a smile. How pleasant it all sometimes seems. Until you get out of bed, that is.
“Yes,” she breathed.
I introduced myself. With a pencil Lisa vaguely pointed to
a corner set of cubicles. They were green. I assumed that set them apart.
“Over there. Diane wants to speak to you.”
I guess I was supposed to know who Diane was. Not being an avid fan of Channel 6 Action News, I was at a loss. Still, I figured she was the star of this little drama. And she had to be a sight better than Lisa.
“Diane?” I said.
Three heads huddled around a desk turned in perfect sync. They fixed me with a single look, one of practiced disdain. Inside the newsroom Cerberus sat the fatted calf. The pot of gold, if you will, at the end of the Action 6 News rainbow. Also known as the anchorwoman.
“You mean Ms. Lindsay,” said one of the heads.
“I guess so,” I replied.
Quick, like the detective I am, I reached in and spun Her Highness around by the chair. Diane Lindsay gave a bit of a gasp. She had headphones plugged into a small TV set and had not heard a word we said. Across the screen rolled a stretcher. I noted a soft felt hat at the end of the gurney. Two EMTs loaded John Gibbons into an ambulance. Then the tape cut to a single shell casing, cold in the Chicago night.
Ms. Lindsay removed the headset, looked at me, and back at the tape. Then she shut the machine down.
“Mr. Kelly.”
She was good-looking. In a redheaded, cold, clinical sort of way. The kind of person you’d think was attractive if you were into guilt and relentless remorse. I didn’t have a hankering for either. And Ms. Lindsay didn’t seem to take a liking to me anyway. Still, it was four in the morning and I didn’t much give a damn.
“You called me down here,” I said. “I’d like to see the rest of the tape.”
Diane’s acolytes had moved around me in a loose sort of triangle. Two took notes. The other sized me up for the boneyard.
“I believe Ms. Bange told you we could talk about that,” Diane said.
“Yeah, okay. Listen, we don’t talk about anything until we get rid of the audience.”
Diane gave the trio a look, and they loped off to a solitary corner of the newsroom.
“Now, Mr. Kelly. Let’s chat.”
I unclipped the Beretta I’d snuck past the receptionist who, if there was a God in heaven, would have been Lisa Bange. I put the piece on the desk and sat down. Diane took a fresh pencil from the red hive atop her head. Her eyes fastened on the gun as she rammed the wooden end of her number two into an electric sharpener. She brandished the polished lead and pointed to a stack of legal documents that had surfaced at my elbow.
The Chicago Way Page 1