Hollywood Lost
Page 31
Standing in the entry was not the man he’d seen just a few minutes before or the little boy, but one of Chicago’s Finest. The cop’s stern expression and drawn pistol dictated he was more than ready to shoot first and ask questions later. “Drop the knife down to the floor, then hands up, and don’t move,” came the gruff order.
Too dumbfounded to speak, Lewandowski let the bloody blade slide from his hand and to the wooden planks. The thunderstruck and silent candy maker then lifted his blood-soaked hands over his head. As he did, the cop stepped closer, glanced down at the dead storeowner and back to the cash register. Shaking his head, the policeman noted, his tone as deadly serious as his countenance, “I didn’t get here in time to stop you from killing him, but at least I kept you from stealing him blind.”
Lewandowski’s jaw dropped and quivered as he whispered, “I did not do this.”
“That’s what they all say,” the cop grumbled. He then studied his suspect for a moment before noting, “I’ve seen you. You’re that candy maker with the crazy son.”
“I am Jan Lewandowski,” he admitted.
“Yeah, the guy who conned Geno into selling the fruitcakes. I guess you and your kid are just as nutty as what you make.”
The candy’s maker shook his head. “I swear I did not do this. I swear on all that is holy, I could not do such a thing.”
“The blood on your hands and that knife tell a different story,” came the quick reply. “They’ll fry you before the spring thaw, you can make book on it.”
“But I did not do this,” Lewandowski’s pleaded, tears now streaming down his face. “The child will tell you I did not do this thing.”
“What child?” the cop demanded.
“The little boy who was in the store when I entered. He can tell you that Geno was dead before I got here.”
The policemen shook his head, “Where’s this kid?”
“He ran out into the night,” Lewandowski explained, his eyes looking toward the door. “You must believe me, I did not do this horrible thing.”
“I’m betting a court says different,” the cop snapped. “Now, turn around, and drop your hands behind your back.”
Sensing he had no choice, Lewandowski did as he was told. A few seconds later, he felt the cold metal cuffs go around his wrists. Suddenly his thoughts went back to the sled and his Alicija. Why had he gone into the store? Why hadn’t he just kept walking down the street? Then he thought of the big man. That man was not a complete stranger. He knew that face. He’d seen it before. If only he could remember when and where. And where was the child? The little boy could explain everything. As tears filled his dark eyes, Jan Lewandowski’s chin dropped onto his chest, and he muttered in Polish a prayer learned decades ago in his childhood. It was a plea for a mercy that would remain forever unanswered.