So he gets on the five, six, and ten o’clock news being videotaped introducing his new, politically correct investigative team, thought Leal. A black guy, a woman, and two white guys. Then he thought for a moment. No, wait a minute, I must be the Hispanic entry. Yeah, he’s got all the bases covered, he thought, wondering if Sean really had to pull those strings that he mentioned. And how long would they be here? That was the question.
O’Hara cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for your attendance here this afternoon. I take great pride in introducing to you the newest special investigative team in the department.” He went on for a few minutes detailing how a search of the “best and brightest” young stars had been assembled to follow up every possible lead on “the heinous crime” with hopes of “bringing the perpetrators to justice soon.”
Perpetrators, Leal thought. If he loses the election he can get a job reading stilted dialogue for David Letterman.
“Sheriff O’Hara,” one reporter asked, standing. The technician focused the minicam on the speaker’s podium. “Are we to take that to mean you feel the Walker case is solvable?”
“Any case is potentially solvable if you do enough legwork,” O’Hara said. “It’s just a question of tracing down every lead, leaving no stone unturned.”
“Have there been any new developments?” another reporter said. “Some new leads you could share with us?”
“Let me just say,” O’Hara said, smiling as he looked toward the camera, “that I have the utmost confidence in this group of officers here.” He held his big palm toward Leal and Hart. “They will do their best to investigate what we believe are substantial new developments.”
That sounded promising, Leal thought. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad gig after all, if the boss wasn’t just blowing smoke.
After a few more questions, the undersheriff stood and terminated the conference, saying that the sheriff had pressing issues to take care of. O’Hara took his cue and turned to shake hands with all of them before striding off the platform. A few of the old-time reporters crowded toward the doorway, trying to pump the undersheriff for more information as he left. Brice nodded for the task force to follow him out.
“My office,” he said.
Brice’s office was down the hall. The big room was separated by a drywall divider, with an assortment of plaques, awards, certificates, and photos decorating the wall behind the desk. A shelf of dust-covered law books was framed perpendicularly on the adjacent wall. Brice directed them to sit in the chairs opposite him. Leal noticed that the desk’s surface was relatively clear, except for the phone, a tray of papers, a well-packed manila folder, and an ornately framed photograph that faced the other way. Picking up the thick manila folder, Brice sat on the corner of the desk.
“First of all, the ground rules,” he said. “You’ll all report to Ryan. He’s in charge of the unit.”
Leal noticed Ryan’s eyebrows rise slightly, then he gave a slow, sideways glance in Leal’s direction.
“And Ryan,” Brice continued, “you’ll report directly to me, and I’ll expect daily updates. Smith’s gonna be your partner, and Leal, you work with Hart. I don’t need to tell you how important it is that we kick ass on this thing.” He paused and stared at them, then thrust a manila folder, thick with papers, at Hart. “Here’s the file. Would you mind making four copies for everybody? I got some more stuff to go over with the guys here.”
Leal watched Hart’s lips contract slightly, but she stood and left the room without saying anything. Brice watched her go, then turned back to the rest of them.
“I’ve had a temporary office set up for you in room one-ten. You can go check out whatever you need as far as radios, beepers, telephones, and cars, but,” he stuck his thick forefinger out at Ryan, “let’s see some goddamn results.”
Ryan nodded and smiled crookedly.
“How long we got?” he asked.
“Let me put it this way,” Brice said. “You’d better hope that you break something before the election. A new administration comes in here and who knows where we’ll all be.”
Ryan coughed and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“May I, boss?”
“Sure,” Brice said, “in your own fucking office, not here.”
Ryan grinned again, and stuck the unlighted cigarette behind his right ear.
“Well, I guess we might as well move to our new facilities then,” he said, standing.
In the hallway they paused at the copying room to tell Hart where to meet them. She smiled and nodded, watching the machine automatically collate the pages. Ryan unlocked the door and gave the other key to Leal. The room had two desks, a typewriter on each, and a bulletin board on one wall. “Shit, no phones,” Ryan said. “And only two keys. We’ll have to get some organization here.”
“Want me to run down to supply and get us some phones, Sarge?” Smith asked.
“Good idea, Joe,” Ryan said. “And get us some beepers, radios, and a couple of cell phones, too.” He looked at Leal. “We gonna need anything else?”
Leal shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll think of something when we need it.”
Ryan laughed and closed the door, taking the cigarette from behind his ear and quickly holding the flame of his lighter to the end. He inhaled sharply, then let out a smoky breath along with a collective “Ahhhhh.” He looked over at Leal and smiled, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth. “Look, I just want to get this up front so there’s no problem between me and you. I didn’t ask to be in charge of this thing, and I know you got seniority.” He drew deeply on the cigarette again.
“Forget it. I’m just glad to be aboard.”
Ryan exhaled a heavy cloud of smoke and grinned.
“Great. How about we go for a drink? Just you and me. Today’s about cashed anyway.”
“Sounds good.”
Hart came in with the file and four copies. She gave one to Ryan and another to Leal. Ryan flipped through the pages as though he was browsing a magazine.
“Jesus Christ, this is a lot of shit to sift through,” he said.
Hart stood about three feet away, conspicuously silent. Leal took time to assess her again. She had her jacket on now and looked very angular. Beneath it, he knew, were the powerful muscles he’d seen earlier. He noticed she seemed sort of tentative, especially around Ryan and him. Her saw her blink several times and realized Ryan’s cigarette was bothering her.
Let’s see if she asserts herself, he thought.
A dark shadow banged against the opaque glass of the door.
“That’s got to be Smith,” Ryan said. “Open it, will you?”
She moved to the door and opened it just as Smith stumbled forward, carrying a load of regular and cell phones as well as four portable radios. Hart grabbed two of the portables in midair as they popped from Smith’s grasp.
“Thanks,” Smith said, moving to the desk and setting everything down clumsily. He pointed to his belt where four beepers were clipped. “This be enough, Sarge?”
“As long as they work,” Ryan said. “I’ll take one of the radios you didn’t drop.”
In a few minutes they had the phones hooked up, the beepers and portables distributed, and the seating arrangement determined. Ryan leaned back and lit another cigarette.
“Have to get an ashtray, too,” he said, looking around. “We could use a LEADS terminal, but, Hart, with your background you’ll be in charge of running anything we need, okay?”
Hart nodded. Leal noticed her lips compress into a thin line.
She’s edgy, he thought. The cigarette? Or is it something more?
“Okay,” Ryan said, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost three. Let’s all knock off for today. You two,” he pointed at Smith and Hart, “finish getting yourselves squared away. Get your radios, shoulder holsters, whatever you have to get. Then we’ll all go over the file tonight, and meet here tomorrow at zero nine hundred for a strategy session.
Got it?”
Smith said he did, then immediately went to one of the phones and began dialing. “My wife’s about ready to drop,” he said. “Just want to check, see if there’s anything she needs.”
Ryan turned to Leal and smiled. “See you at Heaven’s Gate?”
“Okay,” Leal said, “fifteen minutes or so? I want to talk to my partner for a few.”
“Sure. It’ll save me from buying the first round.” Ryan slipped on his sports jacket. It was a brown weave that looked almost a size too big for him. He took one final drag on his cigarette and then dropped it on the floor, crushing it under his shoe. “Have to get some filing cabinets in here, too. We’ll have to lock up our reports so nothing walks. Joe, see to it before you leave, okay?”
Smith waved an assent.
Hart stood, holding her file copy in both hands.
Leal tried to smile in a disarming fashion as he took out one of his business cards and scribbled some numbers on the back.
“These are my numbers,” he said, handing her the card. “Top one’s my beeper, second’s my cell phone, and the last one’s my house.”
Hart glanced at it, then grabbed her purse and sorted through it.
“I don’t have any of my new cards yet,” she said. “But let me give you my home number.” She took out a gray-and-black business card with a pair of barbells on the front. As she leaned over the desk Leal noted that her handwriting was clear and neat, replete with all the typical feminine flourishes and loops. She wrote Olivia Hart along with a phone number.
Leal flipped the card over after she handed it to him. The Body Center was printed above the barbell design, with the address. Along the lower edge: Rory H. Chalma, Proprietor.
“That’s the place where I work out,” Hart said quickly. “If I’m not at home, you can usually catch me there.”
I’ll bet, Leal thought, pocketing the card.
“This looks like an Alsip exchange,” he said.
“Right,” she said.
“I live in Blue Island,” he said. “Maybe we can carpool sometime since we’ll be working together.”
“Yeah, sure. And come by the gym to work out if you want,” she said. “I know Rory, ah, the owner, real good.”
A boyfriend? Leal wondered. She was beginning to seem more feminine to him now, not that her sexuality really mattered as long as she knew what she was doing.
“I thought you worked out here?” he asked. “You looked like you were pretty much at home in that gym when I saw you earlier.”
“I do, well, at least I used to,” she said. “I’m…I was the aerobics instructor here, in charge of physical training.”
Leal raised his eyebrows.
Smith hung up the phone and stood.
“Guess I need to run by supply and see about them filing cabinets,” he said, smiling as he brushed past them.
“Wait,” Hart said. “I’ll go with you.” She turned to Leal, smiling up at him as she held the file to her chest like a schoolgirl. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Right,” Leal said. “Tomorrow.”
He watched the two of them walking briskly down the hall toward supply as he locked the office, the muscles of Hart’s well-developed butt snaking powerfully under the brown fabric of her skirt.
Here I am stuck on a high-profile task force to investigate an unsolved homicide that just may decide the election, he thought. And I got Brice in charge and an ex-aerobics instructor for my partner.
Suddenly he wasn’t feeling all that lucky. Maybe that drink in Heaven would be just what the doctor ordered.
CHAPTER SIX
Heaven’s Gate
Ryan was already on his second drink when Leal arrived. The bar, Heaven’s Gate, was practically empty, except for the usual group of hardcore regulars who seemed to begin their drinking as soon as the place opened. Most were retired from the railroad or steel industries, but a good portion of them, Leal figured, were ex-coppers, too. Not a pretty thought, he considered as the smoky, boozy air enveloped him. A cigarette haze hung over the stool where Ryan was sitting. He raised two fingers at Leal.
The bar itself was made of dark mahogany with a heavy polyurethane coating layered over the top. Suspended between the wood below and the top of the plastic was an asymmetrical arrangement of several thousand pennies. The result was not unlike one of those glass paperweights with suspended trinkets, bugs, or designs inside. Other than the “pennies from heaven” bar top, the rest of the tavern was pretty typical: a mirrored backdrop on the wall opposite the bar; rows of bottles, like old soldiers, lining the adjacent edge in solitary silence; some old-style pinball machines dinged away in a corner, accompanied by some video poker players; subdued conversations punctuated by an occasional hacking laugh, and the ubiquitous clouds of wispy smoke.
Sliding onto the red vinyl stool next to Ryan, Leal ordered a beer. Ryan drained the bourbon and water in front of him and signaled the bartender, a heavyset guy named Al, to hit him again. Al’s hair looked a little too thick to be natural. And the shade didn’t quite match his bushy eyebrows and the dark mustache that curved down on either side of his mouth like a winding snake. His teeth flashed brightly as he set the two glasses on the bar, then poured Leal’s beer into the stein. Leal tossed some bills on the bar.
“That all you’re having?” Ryan asked, squinting at him. “A beer?”
“Yeah, I got a long drive.”
“Yeah, me, too. But my girlfriend’s driving. She’s gonna meet me here.” He grinned and took a careful sip.
“She work around here?” Leal asked, picking up his stein. The beer tasted cold and good. He felt the carbonation sweep down to his stomach as he licked the foam off his mustache.
“Actually, she works at HQ. Personnel.” He started to take another sip, but then set his drink down and took out his cigarettes instead. “That’s how I knew about the seniority thing. I checked out everybody’s files once I found out I was going to this task force.”
“That’s handy,” Leal said, looking at Ryan over the edge of the stein.
“So, like I said, I hope there’s no hard feelings about Brice putting me in charge and all.”
“No problem,” Leal said. “I came here today figuring I was getting bounced back to patrol.”
Ryan stuck a cigarette between his lips and smiled.
“Yeah, I heard about you telling off old Dark Gable,” he said. He held the flame of his lighter to the cigarette, contorting his mouth as he did so. Then he exhaled a copious breath of smoke. “You got balls, I’ll say that, man.”
No secret’s safe from his girlfriend’s prying eyes, I guess, Leal thought.
“You’ve obviously read all about my dirty laundry,” Leal said. “Now tell me about the rest of our crew.”
“Okay. Smith put his time in at the jail. Took the sheriff police test about a year and a half ago and went on the street. He’s made some good busts—dope, a couple of guns, but nothing really spectacular. Been on the street about fifteen months, tops.” Ryan paused to belch slightly. He took another drag on his cigarette. “By all accounts he seems to be a good kid, but like most shines, he’s slow upstairs.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “Probably need some help with the paperwork, but he should work out okay.”
Like most shines, Leal reflected ironically, thinking how Johnny DeWayne’s professionalism and quick thinking had made the life-and-death difference that night by the factory.
“And Hart?”
Ryan chuckled deeply, picking up his drink for another sip before talking. “She’s twenty-eight, divorced, no kids, worked in the jail and in communications.”
“Yeah, and how much street time she got?”
Ryan held up his left hand and made an O with his index finger and thumb.
“Huh?” asked Leal.
Ryan nodded. “Yep. Zilch.”
“Then how the hell does she rate a position in a task force like this?”
Ryan shrugged and finish
ed off the rest of his drink. He held up two fingers toward Al again, then turned to Leal. “You want another one?”
Leal nodded and drained his stein.
Ryan took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling.
“I was asking myself that same question,” he said. “I figure that it’s one of two possibilities.” His voice rose, emphasizing the middle syllables of the last word. The slurring was becoming more noticeable in his speech. “Either Miss Hart is one hell of a fuck for some sugar daddy in a high place, which, from the looks of her, ain’t likely—I got her figured for a dyke myself.”
Leal grunted noncommittally.
“Or,” Ryan continued, holding up his finger in an exaggerated gesture, “they’re setting us up.”
“What do you mean?”
Al brought their new drinks, scooped up the bills that Leal had left on the bar, and slapped the change down.
Ryan took another sip and licked his lips.
Jesus, this guy’s gotta be a stone alkie as well as a racist, Leal thought. I wonder how he feels about somebody who’s half-Mexican?
“You know anything about this fucking case?” Ryan asked, taking one more drag before stubbing out his cigarette.
“Not much. Lady judge disappeared about six months ago. Discovered her body in a pond recently, stuffed in some kind of trunk. Never found her car anywhere. Shay made the incident into a campaign issue, saying it pointed to O’Hara’s incompetence.”
“You got it,” Ryan said. “This fucking case is colder than Chicago in January. No way we’ll solve it. Ain’t gonna happen.” He hunched forward, so close that Leal could smell the booze on the other man’s conspiratorial whisper. “But that’s just it. They expect us to fall on our faces on this one. We’re getting set up to get hung out to dry, Leal. You, me, and the two inexperienced tokens they’ve thrown us in with. That’s why you got the broad and I got the dog.”
Leal leaned back slightly. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Shit. And maybe we’ll figure out who killed Jimmy Hoffa, too.” Ryan took a more substantial slug of his new drink, and began fumbling in his pocket for his smokes again. “But we gotta try, right?” He stuck another cigarette between his lips. “Yeah, sometimes you just gotta take a shot. Go for the gold, you know?”
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