The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  She saw two boys sitting alone under an alcove and figured if they were sitting unchallenged they must have played a role. She approached them.

  “Hi, guys.”

  The taller and thinner of the two looked up. His eyes were redrimmed. The heavier one ignored her.

  “I’m Christy. You guys need anything?”

  “We want to go home,” the taller one said.

  “Have you talked to anyone yet?”

  The taller boy pointed to Polanski standing nearby. Christy had not seen him when emerging from the building, but now, in full view, the detective was standing by himself, making notes while the others were engaged around the dumpsters or with the reporters at the rope line.

  She excused herself from the boys and approached him.

  Polanski looked up from his notepad with a startled expression. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m waiting for your side of the story, detective.”

  He glanced nervously at the others gathered near the dumpster.

  “I can help you,” she said. “It isn’t often that people see an honest cop standing up for what he believes. Let me tell your story.”

  “You’re wrong. Most of the officers I work with are decent people doing a difficult job.”

  “You’re risking a lot. You need to get your story out. Let me tell the city what really goes on.”

  He shook his head, glancing again at the cluster of officers and lab techs. “I’m not talking to you.”

  “Look,” she said, under her breath, “I can get the facts out before they’re spun into something you wouldn’t recognize.” She paused for a reaction, but got nothing. “What is it with you, detective? You’re getting the blame for the riots. Do you enjoy that?”

  “Don’t you get it? I’m just a cop who takes his oath seriously.”

  She snorted. “Then you’d be the first. Maybe the only one.”

  “I already told you that’s not true.”

  “Then why were you transferred? Can you answer that? Why aren’t you still with the 31st?”

  The wind kicked up again, filling the area where they stood. She shivered.

  “Leave me alone, Miss Lee.” He walked away and she reached into her pocket, switching the tape recorder off.

  CHAPTER 5

  Campello slowed as soon as he turned onto Rush Street and found an open slot several doors down from Silk ’n Boots, next to an expired meter.

  He climbed out of the car and quickly surveyed the area. Rush was a narrow street congested with a mix of tourists, business types, panhandlers and students. It was quiet, for the most part, except for the thumping sound that emanated from the club.

  Inside, he saw a young woman writhing on an elevated stage in the center of the dimly lit room. Most of the tables surrounding the platform were vacant, and the canned music he heard on the sidewalk was coming from a panel of equipment at the rear of the room. A DJ sat lethargically in front of it. The man wore a black T-shirt, and a ponytail ran almost the full length of his back. A headband was wrapped tightly around his forehead.

  The few customers were ignoring the woman’s performance, most of them preferring to drink at the mahogany bar that ran the length of the wall to Campello’s right.

  Campello showed his star to a balding, middle-aged man in a cage of wire mesh set just inside the doorway. The man looked past the star and directly at Campello before unfolding into a broad smile that illuminated his lined and darkened face.

  “Frank, my man.”

  The bouncer emerged from the cage and Campello did a double-take, scanning the beaming face for a hint of recognition.

  “It’s me. Jimmy Small.”

  “Great,” he said, still uncertain.

  The bouncer continued to grin with his hands on his hips. “You don’t remember me? Jimmy too-tall-for-small?”

  Campello ran through his data bank until a vague memory surfaced. “Oh, yeah. We ran you in for assault.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “’Bout four, five years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Seven. You guys came into a place I was working on south State. A little place called Bo Peep’s.”

  The memory was becoming clearer.

  “You and Adams were working vice and I had to jump some dude ’cause he was messing with one of the girls. I busted him up pretty good.”

  The picture sharpened. “Sure. You offered to help us out with a gambling thing we were working, so we were able to get the guy to drop the charges.”

  “Yeah, ’cept I remember the two of you slapping him around a little yourselves. You said you were helping him come to the right decision.” He smiled again. “I knew you’d remember. And I kept my end of the deal. Didn’t I?”

  “You did.”

  “I was on parole then. If you guys hadn’t stood up for me, I would’ve gone away for a long time. I never forgot what you did.”

  “So how long have you been working here?”

  “Not long. Like I said, I was bouncin’ at the place on State until a few months ago, when Maggie offered me a lot more.”

  “So you’re doing OK, then?”

  The man continued to keep his hands on his hips and nodded enthusiastically as he glanced around the room. “Oh, sure. I’m doing great.”

  The image sharpened further. Campello said, “You married a woman name Maggie, right?”

  The bouncer smiled. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Then that would be the Maggie that manages this place?”

  “Did. I manage it now.”

  “How is she?”

  The smile disappeared. “We got divorced.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, that happens, you know? We weren’t no good anyway. Always fightin’, and then her whinin’ about my drinkin’.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But you know how that goes, right? You been down that road yourself a couple of times.”

  “Four.”

  “That last one. What was her name?”

  “Kathy.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Kathy. Man, she was a looker. I saw her once.”

  “You must be thinking of Carlene. She was the looker. Kathy was a bad choice at a bad time.”

  Jimmy lowered his voice. “She clean you out?”

  “Yep. Wasn’t much to clean, though. Jenny beat her to it.”

  “Who’s Jenny?”

  “She came after Carlene but before Kathy. If you haven’t seen me in seven years you don’t know Jenny or Kathy. They were after your time.”

  Jimmy clicked his mouth. “Man, that’s rough.” Then a frown creased his face. “I was sorry to hear about Adams.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You guys was always up front with me. Always fair.” His expression sharpened. “What brings you here?”

  Campello showed the cell-phone photo to the bouncer, who squinted at it in the low light.

  “Nope. Don’t know her.”

  Campello nodded toward the stage. “Any chance the girl might?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”

  “How much longer is she on?”

  Jimmy looked at his watch, then at the stage. “Three minutes.”

  “I want to talk to her,” Adams said.

  The bouncer shrugged. “It’s OK by me if it’s OK by her. You want a drink while you’re waitin’? On the house?”

  “I’m on duty so you’ll have to make it a beer. Nothing too hard.”

  Jimmy ushered him to a table with a smile and a slap on the shoulder.

  The club was simply decorated with a minimal amount of chrome, mirrors, lights, or any of the other amenities of the city’s finer establishments. Campello sat at the table in the corner of the room with his back to the wall where he could drink the beer and keep an eye on the crowd. For the most part, it was a small cluster of middle-aged men who were more interested in their drinks than the woman on stage. As soon as the music ended, a couple of them gave the girl some desultory ap
plause and Campello watched as Jimmy approached the stage and whispered into her ear. She glanced across to Campello and tipped her head to a door near the bar. He made his way across the floor, leaving the nearly full beer glass, and closed the door behind them, following her down the dingy hallway to a cramped and musty room at the end.

  She lifted a worn satin kimono from a hook behind the door and shrugged into it, before pulling off the blonde wig and tossing it onto the clutter of makeup that littered the dressing table. Her natural hair was cut short and dyed a vivid shade of orange. She pulled open a drawer for a packet of cigarettes and shook one into her hand.

  “Have a seat.” She nodded to a worn sofa along the wall and slipped the smoke between her lips.

  Campello clicked open his lighter, leaning forward to offer her its flame. He inhaled deeply on the aroma before closing the lighter and sitting on the sofa.

  She tilted her head back and exhaled. “Thanks.” She held the pack to him, an eyebrow raised. He shook his head.

  “Trying to quit.” He dropped the lighter in his pocket and took out the cell phone. “Do you know this woman?” He showed her the phone’s photo.

  She crossed her legs and began swinging one foot. “No.” She held the cigarette between two fingers, her elbow resting on her knee.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Her answer was quick, decisive. She wasn’t lying.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Why?”

  “So I know who I’m talking to.”

  “Terri Williams.”

  “You got some ID, Terri?”

  She set the cigarette in a notch on an ash tray and pulled her purse from a drawer in the dressing table. When she found her wallet, she pulled the ID from it and handed it to Campello.

  “A lot of cops come in here,” she said, while he copied the information. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I don’t work vice anymore.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” she chuckled.

  He smiled. “The woman in the photo was murdered. She received a phone call that came from here sometime after she was killed. It’s a lead and I’m following up on it.”

  The woman accepted the ID from him with a frown.

  “You and Jimmy the only ones working today?” He slid the notepad in the pocket of his jacket.

  “And the DJ. His name’s Bobby Longhorse.”

  “He been here all day?”

  Terri nodded before inhaling deeply. The cigarette’s embers glowed.

  “That’s it?”

  The woman tossed her head back and exhaled a plume of smoke into the air, keeping her eyes on him. “Yep.”

  “What time did the club open?” He punched the button on the phone again to get the call history.

  “Eleven.”

  He scrolled through the phone’s memory. The woman had received a call at seven. There had been several over the last several weeks. “Who was here at seven?”

  “Me, for one. And Jimmy.”

  “How about Longhorse?”

  She shook her head. “No. In fact, he was late. He… and Rita,” she said slowly. “Rita was here.”

  “Who’s Rita?”

  “She’s supposed to be here tonight, but said she was sick. That means a double for me.”

  “If she’s sick what was she doing—”

  “She ain’t sick. She’s beat up. Again. She came in to pick up her check.” The woman took another long drag on the smoke. “I don’t care. It’s more work for me.”

  “Beaten up?”

  “Her boyfriend. She said he’s rich. Going to help her out. Been buying her nice furniture, a car…” She swung her foot.

  “What’s her full name?” he asked.

  “Rita Chavez.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “Home, probably.”

  “The address?”

  “I don’t know, but Jimmy can get it for you. He said you two are friends.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that might help us catch this girl’s killer?”

  She shook her head. “Just that I hope you get the guy.”

  He thanked the woman for her time and left her alone, pausing at the bouncer’s cage to ask for Rita’s address. Jimmy went back to the office and came out a few minutes later with a slip of paper.

  “Thanks, Jimmy.”

  “Stay in touch, Frank.”

  He left the darkened club and walked into the brisk chill of an overcast day. A parking ticket peeked out from the wiper of his car. He tore it up and threw it to the wind.

  CHAPTER 6

  Campello pulled into the flow of Rush Street traffic and drove to the twenty-four hundred block of South State Street. He drew up in front of a hardware store across from the building in which Rita lived. The three-story brick structure housed a liquor store on one end and a mini-mart at the other. A street-level doorway between the two shops led to a staircase and a series of apartments on the upper two floors. According to Jimmy, Rita lived on the third floor.

  Campello contacted the dispatcher at the Castle to give him his location before leaving the car and jogging across the street to take the stairs. The sound of blaring TVs, driving music and crying babies wafted from the apartments on either side, but the place was clean and seemed well cared for. He knocked on 301, then stood well to the side of the door with his hand poised over the pistol on his right hip. An attractive young woman opened and peered at him past the security chain. Her lips were swollen and her face was bruised. He showed her his star.

  Campello sat on the couch under the window that gave him a view of State Street. The couch looked new and the apartment was well furnished in contemporary style. Cream-colored walls and pale-cream carpeting gave the apartment a warm, cozy feel and the tasteful arrangement of several plants told him that Rita had a domestic touch. Photos of an older couple that he guessed to be her parents, along with landscapes, dotted the walls.

  The woman was petite but voluptuous. Her chestnut hair was shoulder-length and straight, and her demeanor was soft spoken, even shy. He had expected something brasher – closer to Terri. But Rita’s simple blouse appeared freshly pressed and her jeans were creased. She sat on a comfortable-looking chair with her feet tucked under, as gentle and demure as he could recall his mother being. He showed the photo to her and she shook her head.

  “No. Sorry, detective. I don’t know her.” She spoke with a Hispanic accent. She shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

  “How long have you been employed with Silk ’n Boots?”

  She drummed her fingers on the arm rest as she paused to think. “Three years? Four? That’s right. Four next month.”

  “Where were you employed before that?”

  “Why, detective? I already told you that I don’t know this woman. Why am I suddenly the interest of your investigation?”

  He wanted to tell her he didn’t believe her; that his instincts, developed by years of police work, told him she was lying. But there would be more truth to mine, and he wouldn’t get it by alienating her at the start.

  “You’re not the subject of my investigation, Ms. Chavez. But you are peripheral to it. The victim received a phone call this morning and that phone number traces back to Silk ’n Boots. In fact, she has received numerous phone calls from the club. Since you work there and were there when the call came in, I’m interested in you.”

  “There are others working there too, detective.”

  “And I’ll speak with them. But right now, you’re next on the list.”

  The woman was poised for her age, and clearly unflappable. She paused to consider his remarks, undoubtedly weighing the cost of answering him against the costs to her personal interests.

  “I was employed as an office assistant at Green Enterprises.”

  “The distribution center?”

  She nodded and he made a note of the information, shifting slightly on the couch to relieve the pre
ssure created by the butt of his pistol.

  “How long were you there?”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t know. Two years, maybe three.”

  “There’s a big difference from working in an office to dancing. What happened?”

  “I felt stifled at the company. Plus, I wanted to perform and I have the talent and body to do it.” She smiled and looked at him beneath long lashes. “Don’t you think?”

  Her flirtatious teasing rang false. That meant she had something to hide and was using the sudden come-on as a way to deflect his question.

  “Yes, but a lot of women have the same talent. To be honest, it isn’t that hard to find. Why a place like Silk ’n Boots?”

  “Why not?”

  She had changed her approach. Her answer deflected his question much more effectively than her previous party-girl come-on.

  He made sure that his next question would be more difficult to avoid. He focused on her bruises. “What happened?”

  She sighed. “My life is not perfect, detective.”

  She deflected him again, this time with a generic observation. “Show me one that is. I was told your boyfriend did it. That true?”

  She hesitated, and then said, “I had a disagreement with him. It happens.”

  “A lot?”

  “No.”

  “It must’ve been some disagreement.”

  She said nothing, continuing to drum her fingers on the arm rests.

  “It’ll happen again, you know. It always does.”

  “Not to me. I can forgive once, but never twice.”

  “Who’s your boyfriend?”

  “That’s none of your business. I just told you, it’s forgiven.”

  “I’m not going to arrest him, Ms. Chavez.”

  “Then you don’t need his name.”

  “I can find out. It won’t be that difficult.”

  She stood. “His name is Peter Green. Now I believe I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to.”

  He didn’t need more answers from her. He had gotten enough. For now.

  CHAPTER 7

  Another wave of rioting had broken out the night before on the Southwest Side in the corridor of the 31st.