“You keep your big yap shut and let me do the talking,” Bentley glared at Bobby Joe. “If you want a job tomorrow, you’ll do what I say!”
There had been a bad stench emanating from Indian Hills for several years, and every other suburban police department knew it. When the Arlington Heights Shift Sergeant saw the two Indian Hills squad cars blocking the alley, and saw the three handcuffed police officers lying in front of the garage, including Indian Hills Police Chief Bentley himself and one of his patrolmen, it was far too good an opportunity to let pass. The last thing the Sergeant intended to do was set them free or cut Bentley any slack whatsoever. Despite the Chief’s stream of pleas, threats, and curses, with no badge or ID visible, the Sergeant let them lie there until they had taken a full set of photographs from every angle possible.
“Sorry, Chief Bentley this is a crime scene now, and you’re part of it,” the Shift Sergeant advised him. “We’ll talk everything over after forensics team is done, but not before.” True to his word, almost a half hour later, after his own Chief and most of the other officers in his department had arrived and had ample opportunity to laugh at Bentley, take pictures of him on their cell phones, and even a few “Selfies,” he finally unlocked the handcuffs and set the three police officers free.
The Arlington Heights Police Chief knew Ernie Travers and pulled him aside. While he sympathized with Ernie’s plight, he shrugged and let him know that it was his misfortune to become “collateral damage,” caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.
“Now wait a damned minute, boys," Bentley blustered and pleaded. "My keys, my gun, and all my other stuff are locked inside that trunk,” he said, pointing at the Saturn.
When one of the Arlington Heights patrol officers finally pried the trunk open, his chief glanced inside and did a double-take when he saw the naked body of a dead woman wrapped in a plastic drop cloth. That was when all hell broke loose. The Chief pulled out his own pistol, trained it on Bentley, and ordered them all handcuffed again. When the crime techs finally arrived and lifted her out of the trunk, he saw the collection of semi-automatic handguns, portable radios, cell phones, car keys, a hat, and a ski mask, lying underneath her.
“That's your stuff in here? Is that what you said, Bentley? Well, I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on here,” the Arlington Heights Chief said, “but none of you are going anywhere until we get this whole thing sorted out. Especially you!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Over the next three hours, Indian Hills Police Chief Cyrus Bentley was photographed, fingerprinted, grilled by two Arlington Heights Detectives and a State Police Investigator, and thoroughly humiliated. He knew the surrounding jurisdictions had been gunning for him for years. He had handed them the perfect opportunity to stick it to him good, and that was exactly what they did. With no one to blame but himself and his sister’s moron son, Bobby Joe, Bentley tried very hard to keep his famous temper under control. Largely, he succeeded. As long as the other police confined their games to grilling and insulting him, that was okay. It was the kind of payback crap he expected from his “Brothers of the Badge.” However, if they actually tried to lock him up in the dungeons of the Cook County Jail or subject him to a strip search, a body cavity search, or something truly stupid, it would get very ugly very quickly. Fortunately for everyone, they knew there were limits to this little game of theirs.
Earlier that night, killing that flight attendant, Sabrina Fowler, and dumping her body in that little prick Burke’s trunk was Tony Scalese’s big idea. Bentley objected, because it was sucking him in much deeper than he ever intended to get, but Scalese made it clear that Bentley had no choice in the matter. It was almost midnight; Bentley was at home sitting in his big lounge chair in his boxer shorts, sleeveless undershirt, and Smokey the Bear hat. He was watching the end of a late football game, with a beer in his hand, when Tony Scalese phoned and told him to meet him in the back of the deserted CHC parking lot. Pronto.
“Oh, come on now, Tony. Can’t it wait until the morning?”
“Now, Bentley. And bring that idiot deputy with you.”
“Oh, he ain’t no Deputy, Tony, he’s…” he started to explain, but the line went dead. Scalese had already hung up on him.
When he pulled into the parking lot at the CHC building with Bobby Joe’s cruiser right behind him, he saw the big Italian was already there, leaning against the door of a midnight-blue Lincoln Town Car, waiting. Bentley parked next to him and immediately got out. Tony always drove that pale gold, “satin cashmere metallic” Lexus LS 460 of his, not a dumpy street car like that Lincoln. “Hey, Tony,” Bentley smiled nervously, as Bobby Joe joined him. “A little late for a house call, don’t ya think?”
Scalese glared at them, and grunted. Clearly, he was in a bad mood as he reached inside the Town Car, popped the trunk, and motioned for them to take a look.
The Chief got out, followed closely by his fat “lapdog,” Bobby Joe. They walked around to the rear of the Lincoln and Bentley glanced inside the trunk. “Oh, Jeezus Christ, Tony, Jeezus Christ!” he said as Bobby Joe leaned in, saw what was inside, and threw up all over Bentley’s freshly polished patent leather shoes. The Chief leaned against the car and closed his eyes, but the image of that woman’s naked, badly beaten body wrapped in a thin plastic drop cloth kept dancing around inside his head. The plastic drop cloth pressed against her swollen, bloody face. Her lifeless eyes were open, staring up at him, and Bentley knew right away it was the body of that airline flight attendant, the one he saw in the CHC lobby with Travers and that meddlesome little prick, Burke.
“I got a job for you, Chief. You too, dimwit.” Scalese looked at them and smiled as he outlined his plan to get rid of their problem, for keeps this time. “My boys will put her body in his car trunk. You get that Chicago dick, Travers, and all three of you can find it there and arrest him. Maybe somebody saw something in his car. Or maybe you got a tip. Whatever, that Chicago cop is a real detective. Having him with you will give you some credibility, and even he can’t deny it then.”
Bentley shook his head, trying desperately to get out of the job, but Scalese reminded him of what Greenway said. “You’re bought and paid for, Chief, and it’s time you produce. We need to get rid of Burke, quickly and quietly, and arresting him for her murder is perfect,” Scalese told him.
Bentley turned his head and glanced inside the trunk, then turned away and threw up again. “No, no Tony, I can’t…”
“Him or you. One of you is going to jail — you or Burke — take your freakin’ pick.”
Finally, at 6:50 a.m., the Arlington Heights police allowed Bentley to make a few phone calls. The first went to Tony Scalese’s cell phone. When Scalese answered, it was obvious from his voice that Bentley woke the big Italian from a sound sleep and he was none too happy about it. However, Scalese was the one who had insisted he report in personally when the job was done, so Bentley gave him one. He tried to dance around the bad news, but Scalese was having none of it. When Bentley finally told him Burke had escaped, the conversation went downhill fast.
“You idiot! There were two of you, with guns, how could you let…”
“You’re right, you’re right, Tony. That was a screw-up, but that ain’t why I called," Bentley interjected, cupping his hand around the phone and speaking in a whisper. "There’s something else you need to know.”
“What? Something worse than this?”
“You know, it could be. See, when your boys dumped that girl’s body in Burke’s trunk, it must have been pretty dark back there in that alley. They got in and out, but I’ll bet they didn’t waste much time looking around, did they?”
“Get to the goddamned point, Bentley!”
“Well, it's like this. When the Arlington Heights cops finally looked inside Burke's trunk, in addition to that stewardess’ body, they found three handguns, some Motorola radios and cell phones, and the driver’s licenses of three of your boys. All that stuff wuz under he
r body, which means it wuz in there first, before they put the body in, you understand what I’m sayin’? And I'll bet their fingerprints are all over that stuff... I thought you ought to know.”
There was dead silence at the other end. Finally, Scalese said, “Bentley, three of my men got taken out last night over at that Purdue broad’s house. We figured it was the Jamaicans, Mr. D’s nephew, or maybe the Russians over in Buffalo Grove messin’ with us. Now you’re telling me it was that little telephone company prick, Burke, who done all that?”
“He took all three of ’em out?” Bentley asked, equally shocked. “You mean he killed ’em?”
“No, but he could have. We found them hogtied with their socks stuffed in their mouths. They never even knew what hit ’em… or who. And you’re saying it was Burke?”
“Hey! He did the same thing to us. He took me down and Bobby Joe and that Chicago cop like we was nuthin’, and Bobby Joe had the drop on him. The guy’s quick, real quick.”
“And you’re a moron, Bentley.”
“Maybe, but I ain’t told you the worst part. He has Purdue’s papers. That’s what he told Travers anyway — the books, the reports, everything. So who the hell is this guy, Tony?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Find him and kill him!” Scalese screamed.
“Me? You’re the one with all the gunmen and the muscle.”
“Don’t go gettin’ cute with me, Bentley. You’re the cops and this is what we’ve been paying you for. Put out an ‘armed and dangerous’ bulletin. Say he was resisting arrest.”
“Tony, half the cops in the area are already looking for him. It ain’t gonna be easy.”
“No? Well, if you can’t do it and we have to take care of it ourselves, I guess we won’t be needing you anymore, will we?”
“Oh, don’t go getting all excited on me, Tony.”
“Excited? I’ll show you excited!”
“I didn’t say I can’t take care of it, but I saw what that fella can do. As I said, takin’ him down ain’t gonna be as easy as you seem to think. I’ll get an APB out on the man, but you need to give me a little…” Bentley continued trying to explain, but he found himself talking into a dead phone. Scalese had hung up on him, again.
It was 7:25 a. m. when Angie received the first phone call that morning.
“Mrs. Burke, this is Sergeant Benson of the Winnetka Police Department. I want to let you know that we have dispatched two patrol cars to your house, so if you would…”
“To my house? she said with a yawn, irritated that anyone would dare wake her unless the house was burning down. “Why would you do that?”
“Well, we're concerned that your husband…”
“My husband? You mean Bobby?”
“I'm sorry, hasn’t anyone from the Arlington Heights police called you yet?”
“Arlington Heights? What the hell are you…?”
“Gee, I apologize, Mrs. Burke, I assumed you knew. A warrant was issued thirty minutes ago for his arrest on two counts of murder, plus resisting arrest. He is armed and considered very dangerous. We’re very concerned he might…”
“Bobby? You guys are something else,” she laughed. “The last thing that man needs to be dangerous, is to be armed.”
“Yes, well, uh, this is for your protection, and our officers will be there shortly. So, if you would let them in, they’ll check out your house.”
“Protect me? From him? That’s ridiculous. I’m the last person he’d ever…”
“It’s nice that you think that, but if you don’t mind…”
“I do mind! You can send your men back to the donut shop, Sergeant. I’m in no danger, at least not from him. Trust me,” she laughed and hung up.
The confident bravado Burke displayed to Travers and Bentley behind his garage faded with the morning sun. He knew he needed to move quickly and keep moving. Alone, cut off, and with his back to the wall, that was usually when he operated at his best; but this was suburban Chicago in the American Midwest, not a free fire zone in Iraq or Afghanistan. Fortunately, the law enforcement agencies were very fragmented in the suburbs. There were dozens of different departments in every city, town, township and county. Normally, they did not communicate with each other very much, but not this time. Thanks to Chief Bentley, they had labeled him a mass murderer and the infamous “Northside Rapist.” To compound things further, Bob Burke was driving a stolen, unmarked police car; and he would soon be the subject of an intense, if slue-footed, manhunt. By midday, every police department within 100 miles would be gunning for him. As if they weren’t enough, Greenway and Tony Scalese would have all their Gumbahs looking for him too, out to finish what they started.
Travers’s unmarked car was an old Mercury sedan, painted black with black-wall tires. Bob shook his head. The downtown CPD motor pool probably dumped it on him, because no one else wanted it. “Unmarked?” Who else but a cop with very bad taste would be caught dead driving something this ugly, he wondered. There was a multichannel police radio and a scanner mounted under the dash, and a silver, whip antenna on the rear fender and a shorter one fastened to the roof. A heavy-duty screen separated the front seat from the back, and they had removed the door handles and lock buttons in the rear passenger compartment, so the car could be used to transport prisoners. To top it off, there was a shotgun and rifle rack bolted, braced, and welded onto the island between the driver and passenger seats. The rack held a pump-action 20-gauge riot gun and an AR-15 automatic rifle. He rattled them. King Kong couldn’t rip one of those suckers out of that rack, not that he wanted one, but it left the guns clearly visible from outside the car and that was one more dead giveaway.
Unfortunately, when that idiot Bobby Joe poked him with his pistol, Burke’s temper got the best of him and his mind snapped into full tactical mode. Instead of thinking, he reacted; and now he was stuck with the consequences. He knew he had to talk to Ernie Travers and explain things, but not quite yet. Even if the Chicago Police detective really was straight and believed his story, Travers was a cop first. He would want Burke to surrender and be locked up until an official investigation could sort out the pieces and determine who was telling the truth and how much. Then, there was O’Malley to consider. The US Attorney was the real power player here, and he held all the trump cards. With all the Federal muscle he could command, O’Malley could turn CHC inside out provided Bob got him the proof he needed. Unfortunately, he didn’t have it in his hands yet, and he wasn’t certain he could trust O’Malley or anyone else within a hundred miles of Indian Hills, even if he did. Hopefully, all those the papers, spreadsheets, and reports that Eleanor Purdue stole from CHC would become his “Get Out Of Jail Card” — his and Linda Sylvester’s. If they were half as damning as Eleanor told her they were, those papers would put Bentley, Greenway, and Scalese in jail. First, however, Bob needed to get them in his hot little hands. Second, he needed to get Linda and her daughter out of harm’s way.
As he continued to drive south and east, the sun was already well above the eastern horizon, and the morning rush hour traffic in full swing on the roads. It would be a half hour or more before Linda would be at the Bob Evans, and that was far too long for him to continue driving the unmarked police car without being spotted. He kept one eye on the road ahead, one eye on the rear view mirror and both ears glued to the police scanner, expecting that an APB would be broadcast soon. Scant minutes later, he heard the inevitable first call on the police radio net for all units to be on the watch for a black unmarked sedan. He was on Rout 83, a major north-south boulevard west of O’Hare airport. Up ahead he saw the white and green sign for a large Holiday Inn Express. He drove into the parking lot and pulled around behind the building. Halfway back along the rear façade, he saw a six-foot-high wooden board fence that screened the motel’s dumpsters from the hotel and the road. The parking spaces next to it were empty, so Bob backed the big car into one of them where it was hidden from view from the rest of the lot and from the motel’s rear entran
ce.
Time to inventory his resources and consider his options, he thought. He left his apartment with nothing in his pockets — no money, no cell phone, no wallet, and no IDs. He wondered if Ernie Travers had left anything useful in the car. He bent over and looked under both of the front seats, but he found nothing except McDonalds wrappers and a few old rags.
The glove compartment was locked, but he found several keys on Ernie’s key ring, which looked to be about the right size. The second one opened the lock, and he examined its contents. In addition to a half-dozen state, county, and township maps, he saw a plastic travel pack of Kleenex, a big bottle of Tylenol, and a thick business envelope. A big rubber band was wrapped around it, and on the outside was written, “Airport Softball League Trophies.” He tore the flap open and saw a thick stack of $10 and $20 bills. Fanning the edges with his thumb he could see there was $400 or more inside. Ernie could call it whatever he wanted — petty cash, the office slush fund, or the football pool; but Bob could put it to much better use at the moment than the Chicago police. He stuffed the stack of bills in his jeans pocket, and looked through the rest of the small compartment, but found nothing else.
He got out and looked in the backseat, but there was nothing there that he could see. That left the trunk. He popped it open and looked inside. Not knowing what a cop should be carrying in his trunk put him at a significant disadvantage, he thought, as he poked around. He saw the usual array of tools, shovels, tire irons, and even a toolbox, but all it contained were some very ordinary looking hammers, pliers, wrenches, screwdrivers, electrical tape, and the like. There was a 2’ x 2’ fabricated metal box with two hasps and heavy-duty padlocks, and the word, “evidence” stenciled on the top. The padlocks were open. He looked inside, but it was empty. Figures, he thought. He also saw a pair of muddy baseball shoes, a baseball glove, some bats and balls, and a garment bag. Inside, he saw a baseball uniform, two dingy white dress shirts, a pair of “off the rack” gray slacks, and a cheap blue blazer on hangers. He looked at the labels, but he already knew Ernie was not his size. The tag on the jacket read 52 long. Underneath the garment bag, however, lay a badly wrinkled dark-blue Chicago Bears sweatshirt. He shook it out a few times and put it on. The sleeves were much too long; but if he pushed them up on his forearms, it would do. He also saw a Chicago Cubs baseball hat and put it on too. Checking himself out in the mirror, he didn’t look half-bad.
Burke's War: Bob Burke Action Thriller 1 (Bob Burke Action Thrillers) Page 17