by Val Bruech
“Wine?”
Betty nodded again. Agnes put her arm around her friend’s shoulder and gave her a hug.
I fetched the beverages. The two of them settled on the couch, I sat cross-legged on the rug. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Susan, I’m sorry for dropping by with no warning. But I spoke to Great Midwest and then I started thinking about this account and how much money is involved.” She took a deep breath, steadied herself. “I’m worried. It’s not like Sam to do this and not mention a word to me. It’s not how we treated each other.” She looked beseechingly at Agnes, then me.
“Betty, I can see how this could be devastating. I think to make sense of it, we need more information. The first place to look is the firm—I’m positive most of the money came from there.”
“It’s not about the money—can’t you see that? It’s about him doing all this in secret, concealing it from me!” Betty was almost hysterical. Agnes and I exchanged a quick glance.
“I trusted him,” Betty whispered. “That was a mistake.”
“You don’t mean that.” I took her hand. “I know Sam, and I know you. He would never betray your trust. There’s things we don’t know. We need to get to the bottom of this.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Agnes chimed in. “I remember how upset I was when Cooper…died.” She studied the contents of her water glass. “There were moments, I’m ashamed to admit, when I doubted him, blamed him somehow for what happened. I never got the answers I needed. That’s been difficult, and it still is. So find out everything you can, then at least you’ll know what you have to deal with.”
Agnes’s words grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. According to Betty, Cooper died of a drug overdose. This was not the time to explore that incident, but I needed to know the details.
We sat in a long but not uncomfortable silence.
“You’re right. Susan,” Betty said. “Have the police looked into this account?”
“Uh, would you like some more water, Agnes?” I busied myself gathering up glasses for a refill.
“Susan?”
“I don’t think they’re aware of it.”
“You cannot withhold information from the police. If you don’t tell them about Great Midwest, I will!”
I knew when I was defeated. “Uh, Betty, if you tell them, it might be better if you don’t mention my name.”
“How did you find out about it?”
I told them about fishing through the drawer and discovering it under a false bottom. No need to share how I surreptitiously slipped it into my briefcase.
“The police could learn a thing or two from you,” Agnes said.
“I’m just glad we found it before they did.”
Agnes sat up straight. “I wish you had been around when Cooper was killed. I don’t think the police were as thorough as they could have been in his case.”
“His case? The police were involved?” I echoed.
“My son died of what they call a ‘drug-induced homicide.’ It was never solved.”
Neurons sizzled in my brain pod. “Agnes, I don’t suppose there was a Sergeant Malone involved in the investigation?”
“Yes, he was the one I dealt with. I believe he was in charge.”
Tite had said Malone’s dossier included two or three homicides. Cooper Hart might be one of them. I segued back to the original topic. “I think we need to find out if the firm paid Sam after he went on the bench. Betty, you’re the executrix of Sam’s estate: they should give you the records with no problem.”
Agnes agreed to help Betty obtain the financial data. I made a mental note to talk to Kevin about how the current and former partners split the revenue pie.
When Betty excused herself, I asked Agnes if I might visit her tomorrow to discuss Cooper’s case. She seemed a bit taken aback but agreed to meet at eleven o’clock and gave me her address.
Having a plan of action had a calming effect on Betty. I escorted them to the Buick, but as I opened the passenger door, Betty planted both feet firmly on the pavement and placed a hand on my good shoulder. “Susan, I think it’s hands down that what happened to you in the forest preserve is related to Sam. I want you to tell Tite everything. Will you do that, for me?”
I cleared my throat. “I’ll do my best, Betty.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Drug-induced homicide is an offense created by the legislature in its never-ending campaign to give prosecutors more tools they can use to bludgeon defendants. The law is a double-whammy for pushers: they’re prosecuted once for the traditional offense of manufacture, sale, or delivery (six years minimum), then whacked again for an additional fifteen to thirty if anyone dies as a result of taking, ingesting, snorting, shooting, or inhaling the controlled substance, even if the delivery is a gratuitous, no-money-exchanged deal.
Agnes Hart lived in an established, genteel neighborhood with large oak trees that provided shade in the summer and wore out rakes in the fall. She answered the bell attired in a yellow nylon workout suit with brilliant swaths of turquoise and purple. Her resemblance to a butterfly was unsettling.
She welcomed me into a foyer done in textured silver wallpaper and ushered me through a sunken living room into a solarium where plants too numerous to count exuded the bracing scent of newly turned earth.
“Will this be all right?” She indicated a small glass-topped wicker table and two chairs.
“That’s fine, Agnes. You have a wonderful home.”
She smiled wistfully. “My husband Ed built the house. This was his favorite room.”
Quiet strains of classical music flowed around us. We sat opposite each other at the table.
“If I was a plant, I’d want to live here,” I sighed.
“They’re all my friends,” she said indulgently. “But you didn’t come to hear me go on about horticulture. How can I help?”
“Well, let’s ease into this. What did you think of Malone?”
She cast a lingering glance over the rows of flora. “I must confess, looking back on it, I didn’t treat Mr. Malone very well at first. It was upsetting that the police were involved. Cooper was gone, so what was the point? I wanted him to rest in peace.”
She closed her eyes and swayed gently with the rhythm of the music. The violin section was playing a particularly soothing segment. I was learning that some folks are more forthcoming when they felt comfortable and unthreatened. If I wanted to gain their confidence, I’d be wise to adapt to their concept of time and not force them into mine.
“He wasn’t as gruff as he looks,” she continued. “He said that whoever gave Cooper the drugs was the evil one, and ought to be punished. He never said anything bad about Cooper. I spent quite a bit of time with him. He needed to know all about Cooper’s school and friends and work.”
She interlocked her fingers together on the table and took a deep breath.
“To answer your question, I came to like Malone. I thought he did a good job.”
“But there were no arrests made?”
“He didn’t have to tell me it was a hard case. It happened just when the weather started to get nice, May, a grand reunion out at Badger Lake. The kids who went away to school and the kids who stayed here in town all got together. There were over two hundred people. They had a live band, everybody brought friends—that type of thing. Young people are so casual.”
Badger Lake was about forty minutes from town. Many Joliet families had vacation homes there, and a few commuted back and forth to work.
“Malone said there was a lot of drinking and some kids were smoking marijuana. Apparently no one saw Cooper take anything. He just…convulsed on the dance floor.” Agnes spoke in an absolutely monotone, as if reading a train schedule.
“I’m so sorry, Agnes.”
“Ed was busy with his business when Cooper was growing up, so I was the one who went to all his games, helped him with homework, talked his problems through.” Tears filled her eyes. She got up and adjusted a pot
ted plant.
“Do you know what kind of drugs he took that night?”
She stood with her back to me. When she finally turned around, her face was colorless, like a sidewalk that had been trod upon far too much. “They said it was heroin laced with hashish. I know he never used drugs until that night.”
“Were there any suspects?”
“Malone talked about some Gangster Disciples who showed up at the party. No one knew them. But he couldn’t find anyone who said they had drugs.”
The Gangster Disciples are a black street gang that originated on the South Side of Chicago. They are known for drug dealing and related crimes. Joliet has several state prisons, and a lot of gang members stay in town after their release. I like to give them the benefit of the doubt, but quite often they are not model citizens.
“Did the sergeant keep you informed of his progress?”
She lowered herself heavily into the chair. “He called regularly at first, telling me who he’d interviewed and what he’d found out. After a while, the leads just seemed to peter out. I’d call and he’d say he was working on it. He always had time to talk.” She smiled at a memory. “Usually he’d mention something nice about Cooper that someone had told him.”
She looked at me with a fox’s eyes. “Susan, why all the interest in Mr. Malone?”
I wasn’t seeing any connection between Sam and Malone, and I didn’t want Agnes to worry about the possibility or repeat it to Betty.
“Well, Cooper’s case was unsolved, the reports are missing…”
Her head jerked up. “What?”
I repeated my last sentence.
“Cooper’s reports are missing?” Her eyes swiveled in disbelief
“No, no, I misspoke.” I raised my hands in denial. “Some reports from Malone’s cases are missing; I don’t know if Cooper’s is one of them.”
“Maybe they’re just lost, or misplaced.”
“Could be. Did Malone ever dodge you, not return your calls?”
She shook her head. “Not that I remember. He seemed very diligent.”
Apparently she hadn’t read the article in the paper about the possibility that Malone took bribes in exchange for allowing the guilty to evade the consequences of their crimes. I decided not to enlighten her.
“If Cooper’s reports are missing, what does that mean? Will they have to start the investigation all over again?” Dread, horror, fear—all were etched on her face.
“I don’t know. Agnes, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this would upset you so. And remember, Cooper’s reports may not be missing. His case may just be unsolved.”
She looked right through me, her eyes overflowing.
“I…I can’t believe this. I need to be alone now. I’m sorry. Can you show yourself out?”
She buried her face in her hands. I reached out to reassure her but my outstretched hand hung in the air between us as a small groan momentarily drowned out the classical music. I pulled my hand back and looked to the plants for guidance but they were mute. I tugged my jacket tighter around me and felt helpless. As I exited the solarium, I stole a quick glance back at Agnes. She was slumped over the wicker table, head cradled in her arms, her body racked with sobs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I faxed a copy of Sam’s autopsy report to your office.” Al’s voice on my home answering machine was matter-of-fact. No preamble, no farewell, no “can’t wait to see you again.”
I chopped up a few veggies that were still the right color and threw them into some couscous. I ate, then called Al at the station.
“How ya’ doin’?” he drawled.
“No complaints. You sound good.”
“Took the day off, got away for a while.”
“Where did you go?”
“Up to Chicago, saw some buddies, chilled.”
Nice of you to invite me.
“Thanks for the autopsy.”
“Yeah. No surprises. What’s up with you?”
“Is the Cooper Hart case one of the homicides Malone messed with?”
Long pause. “Mm…m…ay…be,” he drawled. “You missed your calling. Think you could pass the police academy exam?”
“Depends on the search and seizure questions.”
“The answer is search everywhere, seize everything and worry about the law later.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. Hart’s mother is Sam’s wife’s best friend.”
“No kidding,” he said. “So Sam probably knew the deceased.”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, less confident now.
“Sounds like one of those ‘six degrees of separation’ things. Maybe four degrees. Stories like that happen all the time in this town. You might find connections in some of the other cases too, considering the business Sam was in and how many people he knew.”
“You think it’s too tenuous.”
In my mind’s eye, his face turned thoughtful. “If that’s all there is, affirmative. What’s your plan?”
“Well,” I said hesitantly, “I was wondering what you’re doing right now.”
Silence. Then a chuckle tickled my left ear. “I live in the world’s last great bachelor pad,” he said. “It’s not the place I want to entertain the opposite sex.”
I swallowed something large. “Would you like to come over?”
“Where’s ‘over’?”
I gave him my address. He told me he was at the station to pick up some paperwork and could be at my place in twenty minutes. I hurriedly cleared away the dinner debris. When the bell rang, I belatedly checked the mirror. I had discarded the sling, and the bruise on my face had faded to a green/orange medley. My eyes were strangely luminous. I tugged the door open with an unbridled eagerness.
His tee shirt was purple today under the brown leather jacket. The White Sox baseball cap was stuck to his head. A grin split his face.
“You don’t look like a cop. You don’t even look like you.”
“You gotta get past this cop thing. I don’t get all hung up because you’re a defense attorney.”
Whoa. It was like someone splashed cold water on me, without the wetness. I stood, one hand on the doorknob, lost in the thought his words provoked. I had indeed been looking at him through a prism of my own making, rife with distortions and biases. Just what I tell a jury not to do when judging the facts of a case.
“Ahem.”
I invited him in, still ruminating.
He strolled into my house like he’d been there a hundred times before, stopped in the middle of the great room and looked around.
“I think your office has more…personality. This house…you don’t spend much time here. It’s not very lived in.”
“You must be a detective.”
We gauged each other from opposite ends of the sofa.
“Want some coffee?”
“Do you have any tea?”
“I’ll look.”
When I returned, he was sprawled out on the rug next to the glass table, eyes closed, hands folded across his stomach. I set the steaming cups on the table. As I straightened up, a hand encircled my ankle, squeezed, and slowly massaged its way up my calf.
I turned and straddled him from above. He massaged both legs with slow, strong fingers, all the way up my thighs, then he raised to a sitting position and unbuttoned my jeans. He unzipped them slowly and drew them down, inch by inch, to my ankles. I stepped out of them and lowered myself so a knee was on either side of him. I tugged his tee shirt out and pulled it off over his head. His hands crept from my thighs to the leg band of my panties, slipped underneath and went exploring. I put my arms around his neck and pulled him up so we were chest to chest. The first kiss was cautious, but seconds later every scrap of clothing was tossed and we were writhing against each other. We plunged into the same wonderland as before; a wild place where the usual constraints are forgotten and life is reduced to white-hot urges and moaning “yeses.”
The tea was cold, but we drank it anyway. He told me
about being a football star in high school, a starter all through college, but failing to make a career in the pros. He tried business school but couldn’t stay awake in any of his classes. He became a cop when a friend asked him to take the police entrance exam with him as a favor. The friend failed, but Al got the highest grade in the group and found his calling.
“What was your nickname?”
“My nickname?”
“Every football player has a nickname: Gonzo, Shredder, you know. What was yours?”
He reddened. “Jackal.”
“Isn’t that a wolf?”
“Wolf, wild dog,” he shrugged. “I played middle linebacker where you have to be able to read what play is coming. I did it by instinct and I was almost always right, but it looked like I was taking chances, not exactly doing what we were told. I think coach wanted to call me a jackass but he wimped out. The name stuck.”
We sipped in companionable, naked silence.
“Why did you go to law school?”
Sam and Betty were the only two people in town who knew about my brother Ryan. The topic was like a favorite pair of jeans that had grown too small and were now buried in the back of the closet. You hope things change and you can wear them again in the future. Something urged me to share Ryan’s story with Al, and I did.
“That’s a shame.” He sighed. “So law school and your practice are your way of making sure no more Ryans happen on your shift?”
I considered my response. “I suppose, but don’t confuse me with Donna Quixote. There will always be more Ryans because there will always be people who have too much power and get too greedy for wins.”
“Everybody’s greedy for something.”
I looked a question at him.
“Money, happiness…” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Sex.”
“Which one are you greedy for?”
“Every single one of them.” He hurled himself at me and pretended to gnaw my neck.
“Enough!” I cried and shoved him away. We wrestled each other all over the floor till I gave up. We separated and lay on our backs, hands interlocked, gasping for air.
“This is the best evening I’ve had in six months,” he said as his breathing returned to normal.