by Val Bruech
“I know what you mean. Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?” The words were out of my mouth before my brain realized it.
Al paused. “That’s a nice invitation. I’m working tonight, but I’m off now. What were you saying about being ‘snippy’ the other day?”
Big breath. “I acted like a moron, Al. I’d like to apologize, maybe get together.”
The second hand crept slowly around the face of my dress watch.
“You are full of surprises. Somehow I got the feeling the words ‘Marshfield’ and ‘apologize’ never appear in the same sentence.”
“It could be a first,” I admitted.
“I’ll be at the Loading Dock at one o’clock if you want to chat.”
“That works. See you there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The entrance to the Loading Dock is halfway down a nondescript alley no one would venture into unless they knew about the restaurant or were searching for a good place to hide. A small hand-painted sign identifies the establishment and points to concrete steps leading below street level, where a weathered door opens into a sixties netherworld of Formica tables, red plastic booths, and dusty artificial plants. An old geezer with a patch over one eye runs a small corner bar where he’s been pouring drinks since Reagan was president. Sliced pickles accompany every order.
I debated the selections on the antique jukebox where a buck still buys five songs. Elvis’ Jailhouse Rock seemed like a good start.
I was moving to the beat, drumming on the tabletop when suddenly Al was on the other side of the booth. He wore a White Sox baseball cap with the sides of the visor curled in so you couldn’t see his face unless you were looking straight at him. Which I was. His face was drawn and noncommittal. A faded red tee shirt peeked out from under a leather jacket.
“I have an idea,” I said. “I’ll say hello, you say hello, and maybe we’ll have a conversation.”
His eyebrows arched heavenward.
“No, huh? New game. I’ll say a crime that begins with ‘A,’ you say a crime that begins with ‘B’ and so on. The crime can be modern day or biblical. What d’ya say?”
The waitress left menus. Al requested a club soda, coffee for me.
“Adultery.”
“Blackmail.”
“Conspiracy.”
“Debauchery.”
“I don’t think that’s a crime in Illinois.”
“Wow, that’s a relief.”
I mustered a tentative smile. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“The offer of an apology was more than I could resist.”
“I was hoping you’d forget about that.”
Chin on fist, elbow on the table, he waited.
“I don’t respond well to statements like ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing!’ But I realize where it came from—and I overreacted. I’m sorry.”
His expression went from barely engaged to mildly attentive.
“That’s it?”
“My best effort.”
He leaned back and scratched the stubble on his cheek.
“Your best effort?”
The waitress returned with the drinks and took our orders.
“I’m not gonna grovel, Al. Take it or leave it.”
He peeled the paper wrapper from the straw and very deliberately rolled it between the palms of his hands for a minute. Two minutes. He shrugged.
“Okay. It is what it is. We’ll go from here.”
I reached over and found his hand. “Thanks.”
The stone visage relaxed and the corners of his mouth stretched a centimeter.
“What about my offer?” he asked.
“What you said in the hospital? I have to clear any plan with you and in return you’ll keep me in the loop?”
“That’s the one.”
“You know I can’t quit on Sam, but you want me on the sidelines.”
“I want you safe.”
“You want control.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest. “This is going nowhere.”
“I agree.” I ran my finger around the rim of my coffee cup, eyes downcast. “Can we start over?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Why not? They haven’t even brought lunch yet.”
I put a mental padlock on my mouth to avoid escalation. Within a minute, our plates arrived. BLT for him, huge salad for me. We ate non-stop. Halfway through, it seemed like the food had worked a bit of a healing: I felt the combativeness dissipate.
“I read the article about Larry Malone in the paper.”
He looked at me blankly.
“I have a gut feeling there’s a link between Malone and Sam.”
His glass stopped halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“If Malone was taking bribes to back off certain investigations, maybe Sam got wind of it and confronted Malone, or confronted whoever gave him the bribe. Sam was a bit of a crusader, and he wasn’t above taking matters into his own hands if he thought he could get the right result.” I warmed to my subject. “He took on the city once when they tried to push a group of homeless people around. He did it for free, wrote letters to the editor, even filed a lawsuit. He’d do anything to fight an injustice.”
“Your theory is…imaginative. But how would Sam have crossed paths with Malone?”
I cleared my throat. “To answer that, I’d have to know what cases Malone sabotaged.”
Al locked his fingers together in a wing pattern, eyes searching everywhere but in my direction. He leaned back and gave me a wry smile. “I get it.”
“Get what?”
“The reason you called, the reason you wanted to meet me. It wasn’t to apologize: it was to pump me on Malone.”
“No. Well, sort of. But I meant it when I said I was sorry. Cross my heart.”
As if on cue, the morose strains of Brenda Lee’s I’m Sorry came over the sound system. 1960. I leaned back, arms outspread and gazed upward. “Fate.” I picked up my fork and held it poised above my food. Al hadn’t moved. I put my fork down.
“Al, it’s the truth. I needed to say I’m sorry because I didn’t want that scene in the hospital to be the end of us. And when I read about Malone, it hit me like a bolt of lightning that there could be a connection.”
“Lightning flashes randomly and disappears quickly — have I got that right? We cops tend to connect the dots: I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept. Gather evidence, interview the players, analyze, figure out what makes sense.”
“At least tell me how he got away with it.”
“That’s the easy part. Bad chain of command, no accountability.” Al shook his head in disgust. “Malone started doing investigations about three years ago. They weren’t part of his regular duties—he wasn’t trained. As a matter of fact, he was only called on when supervisory manpower was stretched to the breaking point. If he caught a case he was supposed to run the show in-house, assigning patrolmen, pursuing leads as he chose. Theoretically a superior officer oversaw him but…” Al shrugged.
“How many cases was he assigned?”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty. No master record was kept of what was assigned to him.”
“What kind of cases?”
He regarded me through half-closed eyes. “Here’s where I’m keeping my part of the bargain. Malone got the usual assortment: run-of-the-mill burglaries, robberies, hit-and-run vehicular with injuries. Your grandmother could have solved most of them. Malone did the easy ones by the book—he couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion—they were closed with arrests and convictions.”
“And the tough ones?”
“Couple, three homicides, an arson and a home invasion.” Al scowled. “He chose carefully. These were the kind of cases that, as the newspapers say ‘baffled the local police.’ They all needed solid investigation and some luck to crack. If they didn’t get solved, victims, witnesses, families might not complain too loud, you know?”
“How did the supervisors on these cases let him get aw
ay with it?” I was incredulous.
“Don’t forget, everyone was swamped at the time—that’s how he got the assignments. He’d bullshit his way past ’em, told them things were going to break any day, or that he was on the verge of arresting the perp.” Al grimaced. “Dumb luck.”
“What finally tipped you off?”
“Some guys were concerned because he’s been drinking a lot lately, and he’s going through a divorce.” He shrugged. “Happens to most cops one time or another. Then, on the home invasion, the vic’s father is an alderman. He called Malone’s supervisor and things unraveled fast after that.”
“So now what?”
“They’ll try to burn Malone: lock him up, throw away the key. Cops don’t do well on the inside.”
“What about the cases?”
“That’s the rest of the bad news. The reports have disappeared. They think Malone sensed Internal Affairs closing in and destroyed them.”
I slathered a pad of butter onto a hard roll that was probably baked a week ago. “And without the reports you can’t trace who bribed him, or maybe I should say who he was shaking down.”
“Plus it puts us in a huge hole. Damn difficult to solve the case without even a starting point.”
“The currency of the realm is information,” I pointed out. “Malone has it, and you guys need it to get your investigations up and running again. Time to play ‘Let’s Make a Deal.’”
Al was uncharacteristically quiet. Was he pissed off that a dirty cop could cut a deal or was he worried about the fallout from the scandal?
“You think there’s a chance Malone stashed the reports somewhere as a sort of insurance policy?”
Al stopped chewing. “That’s a thought. If we get the reports back, it’d sure make the next couple weeks a lot easier. I’ll whisper into some ears.”
We lapsed into a hunger-satisfied silence.
“Donna Gillespie called in sick the day Sam was killed.”
Salad dressing dribbled down my chin.
“What?”
“Her parole officer’s been very helpful.”
“Was she really sick?”
“Gillespie is off limits.” Tite’s eyes were ice. “After what I’ve told you about Malone, I could end up in the same bleep he’s in. “
“Off limits. Cool.”
The waitress cleared our plates.
“You’ve been stirring your coffee for five minutes.”
“You said most cops get divorced or have a drinking problem.” I stopped stirring. “I was wondering if that included you.”
He searched my face for an unreasonable length of time. “Yes to both.” He shifted his attention to the salt and pepper shakers and regarded them like they held the key to existence. “It’s not something I’m ready to talk about yet.”
“I understand. You don’t strike me as a guy who loses the tough battles.”
A world-weary smile materialized. “It’s a day-to-day life.”
Silence floated between us like a balloon neither wanted to puncture.
I smoothed out my napkin on the table in front of me. “Can you give me the names and dates on those five cases?”
“When do you want them?”
I looked at him, wide-eyed.
“Just kidding. Imagine my head on Ross’s plate. Not a pretty picture.” The tone was non-negotiable.
“I had to ask.”
The bill appeared on a plastic tray with two cellophane-wrapped peppermints. We each paid for our own lunch.
The walk back down the alley felt so different from the walk—was it just last Monday?—from Sam’s chambers across the courthouse plaza. We paused at the entrance to the alley. He looked down at me, all stern and serious, then flashed that great all-boy grin. Even when he was being a cop, like now, I felt right in his presence, like a loose photograph finally fitted into the perfect frame.
“Make sure to let me know when they throw you in the river,” he said. “I’ll try to come fish you out.”
I watched him slide into the undercover car. He pulled away without a backward glance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I drove to the medical building where United Anesthesiologists had their offices, and pulled into a parking spot with a clear view of the entrance. I called and asked for Dr. Benton. When the receptionist wanted to know who was calling, I responded “Dr. Watson” and was put through immediately. When Benton came on the line, I hung up. That seemed the most efficient way to find out if he was still at work. I waited, eyes glued to the entrance. It was almost five o’clock. An hour later the object of my curiosity emerged wearing a three-piece suit that was fresh off the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. The red carnation in his lapel was striking, even from this distance. He folded his tall frame into a low-slung yellow sports car that sprang to life and growled out of the lot before I could get the Acura in gear. I caught him at the first light and stayed four or five cars behind him as he drove across town. The yellow car wove in and out of traffic like a soccer player dribbling the ball through a field of defenders, making moves I couldn’t match and increasing the distance between us like he was an eagle and I was a pigeon. Fortunately he drew the line at running red lights, so I was able to keep him in sight. We left the city limits, and after a mile or so, he turned into the road that goes to the Joliet Country Club. I accelerated to the threshold of stupidity, but the sports car pulled steadily away.
From a quarter mile back, I saw him turn into the long country club driveway. I knew from attending a few parties here that the parking lot was open to the public, but for a low-life like me getting into the club was going to be a problem since I was neither a member nor a legitimate guest. I’d have to catch Benton before he went in.
The parking lot was huge as befits a golf/workout/spa/restaurant retreat. Benton was approaching the entrance on foot when I swerved into the handicapped space closest to the front door.
“Hi, doc.” I waved as I jumped out of the car.
“Ms. Marshfield, what an unexpected pleasure.” His expression changed to concern. “What happened to you?” He indicated my arm, still in a sling.
“Turns out there’s still a few wild animals left in the forest preserve,” I said, unsmiling.
“You were attacked by an animal?” He seemed startled.
“Yeah, the kind with hunting knives and ski masks and clubs who take off for Mexico after their dirty work’s done.”
He appeared puzzled, then his face cleared. “You were being humorous,” he said, bemused. “You were really attacked by people. How terrible. Have they been arrested?”
“Not yet. Do you know any Mexicans, doc?”
He looked at me, seemed to consider a response. “I don’t think so,” he said uncertainly.
“Do you own a gun, doc? A twenty-two?”
His goatee seemed to bristle. “Ms. Marshfield, whether I do or not, I fail to see what business it is of yours.” He was wary now, but still polite, as if I might be clueless as to how out of bounds my questions were.
“You know judges can’t talk to parties about pending litigation. How come you waylaid Judge Frederick at the courthouse the morning Judge Kendall was killed?”
“What kind of game are you playing? Why are you trying to antagonize me?”
“Brenda Haskins was having an affair with you at the time of her husband’s murder, wasn’t she?”
He drew a deep breath and seemed to expand in all directions. “Mrs. Haskins’ personal life is none of my business. If I see her in passing I’ll be sure to pass on your slanderous allegations. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He turned to enter the club. As he did so a foursome exited.
“When did you last talk to Judge Kendall?” I asked, loud enough for the newcomers to hear. They stared at us, wide-eyed.
Benton inspected me calmly. “Your questions give you away, Ms. Marshfield. You are desperately seeking a scapegoat for your friend’s murder and for some unfathomable reason you’ve settled on me.” H
e came to within a foot of my personal space. “If you do not cease harassing me with these unfounded allegations, I will take legal action.”
He turned and walked away. I waited till his hand was on the entry door handle.
“Where were you the morning Dr. Haskins was murdered?”
He hesitated mid-stride, half-turned, then disappeared inside the club. The foursome was motionless as if caught in some giant neutralizing beam from outer space. I manufactured a smile for them, sauntered to the car and drove off.
Benton won that round. His placid demeanor in response to my attempt to press his buttons was weird. The doctor was either totally innocent or guilty and supremely unflappable. If the latter, I would have to be very, very careful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
An unfamiliar Buick sat in my driveway. As I pulled up, the front doors of the other vehicle flew open, and Betty emerged from the passenger side, Agnes Hart from the driver’s. My welcoming grin faded when I saw the consternation on Betty’s face.
“Susan! What happened?”
I had become so accustomed to my sling and a face that caused mothers to clutch their infants and run that I forgot how shocking my new appearance could be.
“Little accident. Nothing serious.”
Betty came to a standstill. “What kind of ‘little accident?’”
“I was running in the forest preserve and a couple guys didn’t want me around.”
“Omigosh! I saw the headline in the paper. I didn’t realize it was you!” Betty squeezed my good side. “No permanent damage?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got to take it easy for a while.”
“Susan, does this have anything to do with the things we’ve been talking about?”
“I don’t have a clue, but I’m open to the possibility.”
“This is too much,” she said, clasping her hands in distress. “Can we go inside and talk?”
I unlocked the front door and led them through the foyer into the twenty by thirty-foot great room. Agnes looked suspiciously at the plum-colored sofa and the modern coffee table. “Would you like some tea?” I asked.
“Water’s fine,” Agnes said. Betty nodded.