The Keepers

by Jeffrey B. Burton

  “I don’t think so,” the voice said. “My family and I—our safe house will be in, oh … maybe Europe or Australia … maybe Japan or Peru.”

  “But I’ll need you here for the case to stick. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done for them because you were coerced. I get that. We can cut a deal. Okay?”

  “Like you did with David?” the voice said. “No, I think I’ll follow the news online and see how it plays out before I decide if I’m ever coming back to Chicago. This envelope I’m going to hand you … it’s explosive. It’ll work like a self-cleaning oven—you won’t need me. And perhaps I can call you from Moscow or Thailand and talk about immunity and whatnot.”

  Feist thought for a moment. “How do you want to get this to me? Mail?”

  “The mail? Christ no.” The voice snickered and added, “It could make it to your office, but not to your desk. It has to be hand-delivered—in person—like serving a subpoena.”

  “How do you propose doing that?”

  “You know Washington Park?”

  “Of course.”

  “We connect there for the two seconds it takes for me to hand you the nine-by-twelve.”

  “I can be there in an hour.”

  “Then you’ll have a hell of a long wait,” the voice said. “I’ll see you at midnight.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not meeting you in broad daylight.”

  “Washington Park isn’t that safe during the day, much less at midnight.”

  “You’ve got all that SPB juice, Feist. Have some squads sweep it at eleven, scare away the druggies. But don’t tell anyone why. I’m partial to having my fibulas remain intact.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “He’s an asshole at a cellular level,” Kippy shouted across the table.

  Kippy didn’t swear much for a cop, but when she did, I found it impressive. And the angrier Kip became, the more colorful. I’d have to turn my head or pretend to look about for my keys or iPhone so Kippy wouldn’t take any chuckling the wrong way once she’d built up a full head of steam.

  “He’s half Peter Principle and half Dunning-Kruger.”

  I’d heard of the Peter Principle, where employees get promoted to their maximum level of incompetency. “What’s Dunning-Kruger?”

  “It’s when a Peter Principle thinks they’re smarter than reality would suggest.”

  I learn a lot listening to Kippy, from Dunning-Kruger to cellular assholes to what she planned on having me implement tonight.

  I should get college credit.

  We sat at a high-top table in a forgotten corner of Clover’s on North Water Street in downtown Milwaukee listening to a fair rendition of Culture Club’s “Karma Chameleon.” The bar featured over fifty beers, lounge seating on two levels, free pool, multiple HD TVs, Chex Mix, and live music, but—though I’d been eating Chex Mix by the fistful—that’s not what made us leap into Kippy’s Chevy Malibu at rush hour on a Friday evening and spend two-plus hours hightailing it to this joint in Miltown. What made us hightail it to the city that beer built was to catch Eddie Clare play the drums for Time Machine—an eighties revival band that had been touring clubs in the Midwest since late March.

  Although the drummer had moved to Texas soon after his forced exodus from The U-Turns, it turned out he’d been bouncing about the Midwest for much of the past month.

  I was nursing my second Pabst and enjoying the music. It was the first time I’d spent any significant amount of time with Kippy since I’d throttled back on movies and pizza and the entire just-friends thingamabob, and it made me realize just how much I’d missed her these past few months—those deep brown eyes, the curve of her cheek, that slender neck, the hint of citrus, and her brutally honest passion.

  Currently, her brutally honest passion—perhaps ire might be a more proper word—was aimed squarely at CPD detective Trevor Ames, the man she deemed an asshole at a cellular level. Evidently, Kippy’d had more run-ins with Ames than the one I’d witnessed in the outer hallway at Jonny Whiting’s executive condominium. Kippy had scored top of her class at the police academy, had killed both CPD’s written and physical exam, all this in addition to showing up at the table with a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice. Though Ames’s position within CPD fell under the Bureau of Detectives, he’d been assigned as a detective inside the Area North Detective Division … and their paths had crossed on multiple occasions. It was clear she was gunning for detective; Ames knew this and, evidently, couldn’t let it be.

  “Did you tell Ames about Eddie Clare?” I asked.

  “Yeah—he gave me that condescending smirk and told me Clare was married and living in Texas, and had been out of the picture before there was ever a picture.”

  “You tell him we found out he’s been playing gigs in Wisconsin?”

  “I shot him an email saying we were catching Clare’s act tonight,” she replied. “Of course that didn’t rate a response or acknowledgment or anything.”

  Kippy sipped at her sparkling water, not only because she was the designated driver but because she had to keep her wits about her for when Time Machine took their next break. The eighties tribute band was scheduled to perform four hours tonight with twenty-minute breaks between sets. Wabiszewski had sat with Kippy during Time Machine’s first set, but got a bellyful of Duran Duran, OD’d on Van Halen and John Cougar Mellencamp, and came out to spell me with Vira so I could catch their second set.

  After their first set, Eddie Clare couldn’t drop his drumsticks fast enough to hustle himself outside and flare up a Marlboro. In fact, Clare stayed out on Water Street, sucking tobacco until a Clover’s bartender came to fetch him for the band’s second set. And then Clare did another five minutes in the men’s room, much to the visual chagrin of Time Machine’s lead singer and the group’s other two members. Clare didn’t appear to give a damn about his band partners’ annoyance and ignored their dagger eyes as he situated himself behind his drum set so the show could go on.

  As it turned out, Eddie Clare was a pretty damned good drummer; he had the chops as they say—both speed and groove—even a touch of flair when it came to the solos. The man could bang away—hitting the beat dead center—as droplets of sweat flew off his face.

  He was no Neil Peart or Ginger Baker, nonetheless … Eddie Clare gave good percussion.

  Clare was a tall man, wiry, and he sported a black T-shirt with a Frisbee-sized patch of dampness on his chest. All the Time Machine members wore mullet wigs—cheap, like the kind you’d pick up at a party store in time for Halloween—but Clare seemed the only performer continually having to wipe the monsoon of perspiration that poured off his forehead with a forearm or fistful of bar napkins. Even with that water loss, Clare kept himself hydrated by taking hits off a twenty-four-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola between songs.

  Time Machine was a good-enough bar band—Clover’s dance floor was packed and you could hear patrons, both young and middle-aged, scream along with their favorite hits—certainly worth the five-dollar cover and overpriced drinks. It had been a fifty-minute set, my Pabst was down to a teaspoon of backwash, and the lead singer was doing a passable version of “With or Without You.” Most of the group looked in need of a break except for, surprisingly, Eddie Clare. Clare had a certain fuck you intensity, a vibe avowing that as long as he had a wad of napkins to mop back the sweat off his brow, he could jam all night.

  At the end of the U2 hit, Time Machine’s lead fumbled about with his wireless mic.

  That was our cue.

  Kippy set down her water and said, “Get Vira.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “You’d better enjoy this while you can.” Peter Feist chewed at a small slice of pizza and added, “If you take after Mom and me, you’ll both be getting braces in junior high and then its soup and applesauce for two years.”

  “No way,” said daughter number one.

  “Karla has braces and she eats pizza all the time,” said daughter number two. Karla was their mo
st frequently utilized babysitter.

  “That’s right,” Feist replied, “it’s candy you don’t get to eat. Halloween will be canceled for two years.”

  Daughter number one, Annika, rolled her eyes—she wasn’t buying his BS, but daughter number two, Kiley, appeared hesitant.

  Laura added, “Don’t you girls know by now never to listen to him?”

  “Eggs,” Feist said in mock surprise, “that’s a horrible thing to say about the father of your children.”

  Whenever someone would query Feist on how he’d come up with the nickname Eggs out of Laura, he’d tell the truth—that scrambled eggs was the first meal she’d ever made for him. Of course, Feist kept silent on the part about how Laura had scrambled them up for him after their first night spent together back in law school at Loyola.

  Feist had picked up a half cheese, half mushroom and sausage—a large—at Luigi’s Pizza on the way home as a half-apology, half-excuse for him having to sneak off—back to the office for this thing at work—at a time when most people would be settling between the sheets for a long night’s sleep. Eggs had been delighted about Luigi’s, but as for his having to head out later … not so much.

  Luigi’s served up some of the best pizza in town, but tonight it went down like doughy paste. Had he gotten David Siskin killed as the voice on the phone—Siskin’s business partner Michael McCarron—had intimated? If so, Feist didn’t know if he could ever forgive himself. Thus it was all he could do to choke down a single slice of Luigi’s and feign merriment around the dinner table.

  The kids were happy but Eggs wasn’t buying his act.

  His wife knew something was up.

  Feist worked sixty-hour weeks at a minimum. Eggs picked up the slack—breakfasts and dinners for the kids, PTA meetings at the school, monitoring homework, dance recitals, soccer games, trips to the doctor for any bruises or bumps incurred along the way, etcetera. And it hadn’t been that long ago he’d put her through the living hell of his running for Cook County State’s Attorney. He hated the politics inherent in the position and his four-year stint couldn’t come to an end soon enough. So what in hell had he been thinking, allowing the powers that be talk him into heading the Special Prosecutions Bureau?

  It certainly wasn’t fair on Eggs as she practiced patent law at a firm in the city, working lengthy hours her own self. She’d taken to joking lately about her life as a single parent.

  But Eggs understood his work and knew that this was who he was—the man she loved, the man she married—and she supported him wholeheartedly. Eggs also felt Feist had a chance to make a difference—to actually do some good—in a city that’d just as soon chew you up and spit out the bones than ever change course.

  And, hopefully, tonight would be a turning point.

  Hopefully, with the packet McCarron would be handing off to him, Feist would be able to blow this thing at work wide open and pick up where he and David Siskin had left off. Although McCarron appeared adamantly single-minded, Feist would do his best to talk him out of fleeing the country. The prosecution would work best if he could stash Michael McCarron and his family—immediate or extended or whatever—in a safe house … a true safe house.

  Feist would assuage McCarron’s concerns—Michael McCarron’s existential concerns—by bringing the United States Marshals Service into the mix. If the USMS could run the United States Federal Witness Protection Program, they could damn well keep the McCarrons safe and sound during the course of a trial. And once that was complete, perhaps the Marshals Service could relocate them to maybe Oklahoma or Nebraska.

  Feist winced.

  Goddamnit.

  It killed him to even contemplate that his office—the Special Prosecutions Bureau—had been compromised. He found it impossible to believe the leak that led to David Siskin’s demise had originated from inside the SPB, that there was a mole hidden within the bureau. Nevertheless, Feist had spent all afternoon listing the handful of staff attorneys who were even cognizant of Siskin’s existence in the first place, and then subdividing those names into a list of prosecutors he could trust versus those he wasn’t so certain of.

  If tonight spun his way—events would unfold in rapid succession—the end would be in sight. Then he and Eggs could take a vacation—a proper vacation—dump the kiddos with the grandparents and maybe spend a week dragging her to every snorkeling hole in Maui. Just what the doctor ordered.

  “Is there anything you’re able to tell me about work?” Laura asked after the girls had been dismissed from the dinner table.

  Feist picked up dirty plates, headed to the sink, and deflected, “Andrea’s filing for divorce.”

  “About damn time,” Laura said.

  Andrea Hayes, who spearheaded legislative reforms for Feist, had believed herself to be in the picture perfect marriage until she’d finally gotten around to using the wireless indoor security camera her husband, Rob, had set up to monitor the kids or pets or repairmen, or in the off chance of a burglary. And though Andrea found no evidence of Rob cheating on her or abusing drugs, what she did find was equally disturbing. While skipping through video on her iPhone, Andrea watched herself from earlier that morning as she opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Seconds later, Rob walked behind her—heading for the coffee maker with hardly a care in the world—and, as he passed by, he paused long enough to lift his right hand and give the middle finger to the back of her head. Andrea’s initial reaction had been to chuckle, but as she used the motion detector functionality to skip through various indoor activities; she came to realize what had occurred that morning was far from a one-off.

  Whenever Andrea got up from the couch to use the bathroom, there was Rob flipping her off. Whenever Andrea was sipping tea at the island, sure enough, there was Rob in the background giving her the bird. Whenever Andrea was vacuuming, there Rob was—behind her—middle finger on full display. It soon became clear that Rob held some kind of deep-seated resentment, some kind of inherent contempt, toward Andrea that, evidently, bubbled to the surface every time her back was turned.

  “There are some odd ducks on this planet.” Feist crumpled up the pizza box to fit in the garbage.

  Laura added, “That there are.”

  Feist hugged his wife after the girls had been put to bed and read to sleep, he kissed her on the mouth, and said, “Don’t wait up, Eggs.”

  “You know I will,” she replied.

  CHAPTER 14

  Vira and I returned along North Water Street, slipping in and about the mass of bar hoppers, many my age—the ass end of their twenties, spitting distance from thirty—many younger, mostly just happy to be out on a mild night in late April after a long and unfriendly winter. As I approached Clover’s, Eddie Clare stepped out the front entrance—he must have received feedback and used the men’s restroom first this go-round—palmed a cigarette as he passed the line of windows, leaned up against the nightclub’s brick exterior, popped the smoke in his mouth, and lit up. Kippy trailed the drummer at five yards back, her badge now on a belt clip, her ID in hand, ready for a quick flash. She caught my eye, nodded, and approached Clare.

  This was the tricky part. Kippy and Wabiszewski were Chicago PD and we were in Milwaukee, not just a different city but state—more than a minor jurisdictional issue. Kippy was also off duty. In addition, this was not Kippy’s case because, hell’s bells, she’s not a detective. Ergo, we had no authority to do anything beyond engaging the musician in casual conversation. And that was really all we wanted to do. It’s a free country and cops can catch a concert just like anybody else. On the ride over I’d lobbied for us to act fan-like, suck up and tell Clare how great we thought he was while Vira performed her other thing—her sussing out any scent DNA from Jonny Whiting’s murder scene, her connecting of dots. And if it continued to be the case of the dog that didn’t bark, we’d pat Eddie Clare on the back, hop in Kippy’s Malibu, and book it back to Chicago.

  However, I lost the debate.

  The three of us worried
about the time delay as it had now been over a week since we’d visited Whiting’s condo. We feared that whatever scent trail Vira might have latched on to had long since scattered, dispersed into the ether … and been forgotten. So Kippy, with Wabiszewski’s tie-breaking vote, wanted to give good, old-fashioned police work a try. She wanted to flash her badge, introduce herself as Chicago PD, and, because she was in street clothes, let Eddie Clare assume her plainclothes meant she was a detective.

  Kippy wanted to rattle Clare’s cage and see how he reacted. If Clare was the killer, perhaps he’d do that weird thing where his head turns one way whenever he’s lying, perhaps his facial expression and nonverbal cues would go all haywire, perhaps instead of saying that was horrible to hear about Jonny, he’d start demanding an attorney.

  I wore a dark gray polo shirt over dark jeans—my standard attire for a night on the town. Kippy had been pleased to see my shirt came with a breast pocket. I took it as her complimenting my sense of flair, but soon discovered she had an ulterior motive.

  At Kippy’s nod, I tapped the Record button on the Voice Memos app and dropped my iPhone into my shirt’s pocket. This was what she’d wanted me to implement tonight and we’d kicked this ploy about on the drive to Milwaukee. Kippy and Wabiszewski thought it best if the non-cop of our trio was the one recording the conversation with Eddie Clare, lest there be any legal entanglements down the road in case Clare somehow decided to confess his guilt to a couple of complete strangers outside an Irish pub on Water Street. Kippy explained how both federal and Wisconsin law permitted something called “one-party consent,” which basically meant everything is okie dokie on the tape-recording front as long as I’m a party to the conversation which—well, duh—I would be.

  “… and this is Mason Reid, one of our K-nine trainers,” Kippy said as we approached.