He gestured to the couch. “Could I sit?”
She nodded and he sat on the couch. She remained standing.
“How do you know Rita?” he asked.
“She was just a friend.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Not long.” She was lying, being evasive, but she was also an important link to the deaths of Rita and Trina. Calling her out would run the risk of closing her down completely, particularly given his history with her and her apparent nervous reaction at having him in her home.
“How have you been? Since the shooting, I mean.”
“It’s not been easy. I know Germaine was a hot-head and we certainly had our problems, but…”
Germaine Thomas was Hoppity’s real name.
“I’m sorry things had to go down the way they did.”
“How did Rita die?”
“We think she was murdered.” He pulled his billfold from his back pocket and handed her his card. “If you remember anything, hear anything, I’d appreciate a call. Day or night.”
She took the card and he couldn’t help but notice that her hand was trembling.
CHAPTER 19
The car had not been touched, although it had attracted a small crowd of admirers. He returned to the Castle, parking next to Polanski’s Ford Taurus. The tire had been changed. He got out of the car and ran into Shelly and Hughbanks who were on their way out of the building.
“Our snitch ran into a bit of car trouble last night,” she said.
“I heard.”
Jerry said, “Came as a surprise to all of us.”
“Uh huh. I’ll bet.”
Shelly grinned. “Actually, it did. Some of the guys from the 31st came over to discuss strategy for the riots. On their way out, they took a little recreational time and vented on our boy.”
“Speaking of which,” Campello said, “where is he?”
Shelly glanced at Hughbanks and he shrugged. “Don’t know. We overheard Lopez say he was out on an interview, but that was a while ago.”
He glanced around the lot. The Crown Vic was missing. “Did he take the car home last night?”
Shelly shrugged. “Yeah. He was on his way home last night, but came back to get the keys from the cabinet.”
Jerry laughed. “Funniest thing. He got the keys, never said a word, and drove off, leaving the car with the flat. It was like he was trying to punish us.”
“Us, Frank,” Shelly said. “The turncoat was trying to punish us.”
He snorted. “Where’re you guys going?”
“We’ve got some interviewing to do,” Shelly said. “Then we’re going over to the 31st to talk to some of the guys about our boy. Bob has told me what he knows, but I want to see what I can find out first hand.”
“And we want to check up on Caine and Dorchester,” Hughbanks said. “This has got to be hard on them.”
“No doubt.”
“We’re going to get this guy out of here, Frank,” Shelly said. “I don’t know how, but we’re going to get it done.”
They exchanged fist bumps and the two detectives climbed into Tertwiller’s unmarked squad. Campello watched as they drove off before going into the station and taking the stairs to the second floor. The squad room was busy and he went directly to his desk, pulling the folded list he had gotten from Rita’s computer from inside his pocket, before draping his jacket over the chair. After booting up the computer, he filled his coffee cup and sat down.
Each of the seven names on the list, including Trina’s and Juanita’s, had a cell phone attached to it.
He picked up the phone and began dialing the numbers, one at a time. The first one rang and then ended abruptly. He called it again and the ringing ended on the second ring. He frowned and punched in the next number on the list. The number had been disconnected. he dialed a third and discovered it had been disconnected too. The remaining phone numbers were no longer operational. Only the first number he called, attached to someone named Gloria Perez, seemed to still be working.
He picked up his desk phone and punched an in-house number. “This is Campello. I’m going to give you a cell number. Could you find out who the number is billed to and get an address for me?” The voice on the other end of the line took down the number and he ended the call just as Polanski was sitting down at Rand’s desk.
“I heard about Rita,” he said, settling himself where he did not belong. “Peter Green’s our man. He killed both girls.”
“Maybe,” Campello said. “He’s definitely involved.”
Polanski shook his head. “Huh uh. He did it.”
“You can’t make unfounded allegations,” he said, deliberately nudging the man about his charges against Caine and Dorchester. “You’ve got to prove it.” He shook his head, with a lopsided grin that was calculated to demean and annoy.
Polanski gave him a hardened stare. “I will.”
“What did you find out at Trina’s apartment?”
“I talked to her parents. And her sister.”
Campello frowned. “I thought she was an illegal.”
“She was. And so is her family. They’re afraid. That’s why they didn’t come forward.”
“You talked to them last night?”
“Yes. I found them in Mexico.”
“Where’ve you been this morning?”
“Silk ’n Boots.”
“How does your wife feel about that?” He couldn’t stop himself from chiding the man.
Polanski continued, ignoring the dig. “I talked to one of the bartenders. He said Peter Green is in once in a while and he hangs with the DJ. Some guy named Longhorse. Longhorse used to work for him at the warehouse. I talked to him too, even leaned on him a little, but got nothing.”
Campello leaned back in his chair. “Did Green see you?”
“He wasn’t there. Not that it matters. I interviewed him at the warehouse last night.”
Campello could feel his abs tighten. He could ignore talking to Trina’s parents. After all, that had come from Campello’s suggestion that he investigate the girl’s apartment. But interviewing Green without consulting him, particularly given the politically sensitive nature of the family’s standing with the department, was unbearable. “Without talking with me?”
“Without talking with you.”
The man was brazen. Challenging him. “Did you discuss it with Lopez?”
“This morning. I didn’t have time last night. He was already gone and I wanted to catch Peter before he left for home. I wanted to see him at work. To let him know we were watching.”
Campello could feel his anger rising. Polanski was the proverbial bull in a china shop. Always eager to point out the shortcomings of others, real or imagined, but incapable of avoiding the same errors himself.
“While I was there,” Polanski said, “I—”
A sudden burst of noise arose from downstairs. Silvio and Chin were coming into the squad room, grinning, each of them carrying several bags of white powder. Chin also had a box that contained a scale, a strainer, and other drug paraphernalia.
“We got ’em. Got ’em with the stuff right there in the open,” he said.
“These guys thought they were being creative. Thought hiding it out in the open was better than the old way,” Silvio said.
“But we got ’em,” Chin said again. “And we got ’em good.”
“What’s going on downstairs?” Campello asked.
“They’re being booked and they don’t like it,” Silvio said. His grin stretched to a full smile. “It stifles their creativity.”
Campello grinned but it was cut short when Polanski said, “Anyway, to make a long story short, when I was at the warehouse I saw a guy I thought I recognized. Then today, while I was at the club, I saw him again. He’s Anthony Delgado. He’s an enforcer for Pauli Vincent. I checked on the guy and he’s been in trouble with the law since he was in diapers. He started out with vandalism, then petty theft, and progressed to strong arming a
nd—”
“I know who he is,” Campello said.
“Then what’s he doing with Peter Green?”
Campello shrugged. “It probably means Vincent has an interest in him.”
Polanski frowned. “Then what does it mean?”
“It means Peter is hanging with a bad dude. It doesn’t mean that he’s the killer.”
“Come on,” Polanski said, clearly angered.
Campello set the mug on the desk and leaned forward in his chair. He lowered his voice and spoke directly to Polanski. “Look, I think Green is involved in this too. But just because he’s involved doesn’t mean he killed the girl.” He filled Polanski in on the interview he had with Juanita. He told him about Juanita’s connection to Hoppity T, and the connection between her and Rita, and Rita’s connection to Trina, even though she denied knowing the girl.
“Something’s happening at the club,” Polanski said.
“Wow,” Campello said, emphasizing the word, making his intolerance for Polanski clear, “you really are bright, despite what people say about you.”
Polanski shot out of the chair and came around the desks. Campello rose to his feet, fists drawn. “Go ahead,” he said. “Give me a reason.”
Polanski stood less than a foot away, glaring at Campello. His anger was clear and restraining himself was requiring all he had.
“Do it,” Campello chided. “Take a shot. You know you want to.”
“Hey, you two!” It was Lopez. “Cool it. Now!”
Polanski looked over Campello’s shoulder to Lopez’s office. He gritted his teeth and unclenched his fists. He turned to leave the room, grabbing his coat from the rack on his way out.
“Campello,” Lopez said, “in my office. Now.”
Campello slowly turned toward Lopez. His fists were still clenched as he followed the commander into the office. Lopez slammed the door.
“What was that out there?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t snow me, Frank.”
“Nothing, Julio.” Although his fists were unclenched now, his breathing was heavy and his heart continued to pound from adrenalin overflow.
“When he comes back, settle it. You two are going to work together so you might as well get used to it. Let him go cool off. But when you see him, tell him I have a lead I want him to follow.” He slid a note across the desk.
“A lead?”
“On the murder. I just got that,” he pointed to the note, “but it seems your contact, Juanita, called this in early this morning. She asked to speak with Polanski.”
Campello frowned. “Why Polanski?”
“I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. If she feels more comfortable talking to him than to you, then she’ll talk to him. Just make sure he gets the message.”
“I don’t know where he went. The jerk stormed out of here.”
“Then check with dispatch and see if they can raise him,” Lopez said, raising his voice.
Campello stood and opened the office door.
“And Frank? Be sure he gets the information. Don’t play games.”
He left the office, aware that everyone in the room had their eyes focused on him and that nearly everyone was telegraphing their desire to see him beat Polanski into the ground.
CHAPTER 20
Andy Polanski paced the headquarters parking lot. His hands shook with rage and his breathing was labored. His struggle, he reminded himself, was not against Campello or Tertwiller or Silvio or even Caine and Dorchester. But the persistent slurs, the innuendos, the middle-of-the-night phone calls to his family and the provocative vandalism had hit their mark. It had required all the discipline he could muster to refrain from knocking Campello out. But if he had, his witness would have been destroyed.
He slipped a stick of gum into his mouth and continued to pace the lot, aware that the officers coming and going were watching him; some of them with suspicion and some with detachment, and others with glee, glad that someone had finally pushed the right button.
He didn’t care. But he also didn’t want a confrontation, and he knew that one would occur if he let them get to him again; if he lost control.
Polanski needed to get away before one of the officers in the lot lit the final fuse with a condescending remark or an outright challenge. A drive around the block, a cup of coffee or even a brief walk along the lake could calm him, could help him clear his head and regain perspective. His anger was kindled and he knew he would regret his actions if he allowed it to flourish.
He was still pacing when he saw one of the detectives who worked vice pulling into the lot. Polanski approached the man as soon as he was out of the car.
“Keys.”
“What?”
“Give me the keys.” The unsuspecting detective could see Polanski’s rage and tossed the keys to him.
He slid behind the wheel and started the engine just as he saw Campello pulling out of the lot in the Crown Vic, clearly in a hurry.
The man was up to something and Polanski was no longer willing to allow him unfettered access to the case. He decided to follow.
He allowed Campello a bit of leeway, then pulled out of the lot, maintaining the recommended six car lengths behind him.
They drove south on Wabash to Randolph Street where Campello’s turn signal indicated a turn west. Polanski followed while keeping the discreet distance, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
He continued following the Crown Victoria when it turned left, heading south. The traffic light prevented him from making the turn with Campello, but he kept his eye on the unmarked squad which stopped at the next traffic light one block south. That gave Polanski time to turn south and reach a spot that was four car lengths behind Campello. from this position, he could see his partner’s arm thrown across the top of the front passenger’s seat, seemingly carefree, but his fingers drummed on the headrest, betraying a sense of urgency.
Polanski waited for the light to turn as the events of the past week paraded through his mind. Although he was different from Campello, he had always considered himself a team player. That was especially true when it was for the good of all concerned. In fact, it was his loyalty to the team, to the CPD, that had been the strongest motivator when he discovered that Caine and Dorchester had manufactured evidence.
He had taken their actions to the district commander with confidence that the man would address his concerns. The men would be disciplined according to CPD policy, and the critically important reputation of the department would be maintained. The department’s effectiveness was only as good as the respect of the citizenry, after all, and to ignore the obvious would be to sacrifice the bond of civic trust. But it was apparent within days that he wasn’t part of the team and that Caine and Dorchester were. And his career had stalled.
He held no illusions about his transfer from the 31st. He knew that the gossip mill would swing into full fury as soon as he set foot in the Castle, and there would be a faction that would see him as a personal threat. But in his persistent optimism he assumed the attacks would be merely acts like vandalism or snubbing, confined to the personal but not the professional; that his detractors would put the job above personal animosity. But he had been wrong. His new partner was proceeding on the case without him, giving him trivial tasks to make it appear as though he was in charge and Polanski answered to him. Yet Campello had the gall to become hostile when the shoe was on the other foot. Following Campello was the only way Polanski knew to decipher the man’s next action and put an end to the harassment, to send the signal that he would be a player in the district for as long as the CPD kept him there.
The sudden blaring of a horn behind him brought him out of his reverie. The light had turned green, and the line of traffic had begun moving. Somewhere up ahead, Campello must have turned. The burgundy Crown Vic was no longer in view.
CHAPTER 21
Campello did not appreciate the fact that he had just interviewed Juanita but that she had said nothing abou
t approaching Polanski. Prior to leaving the district headquarters, he talked with the dispatcher who had taken the call and forwarded the message to Lopez. He learned the call had come in shortly before he had arrived at her apartment and that she was offering the very information he had tried to extract from her. Whether she would talk to him if he showed in Polanski’s place was debatable, but he wanted answers and he wanted to keep Polanski from involving himself in the case more than he already had. As he drove to the isolated location, he tried to decipher her reasons for not being open to him when he was at the apartment, but could not come up with any other than possible resentment over the shooting of hoppity T.
And who was threatening her? The message indicated she had left her apartment with the baby because she did not feel safe there. She would be staying with a friend and promised to tell Polanski everything she knew if he could guarantee her safety.
He turned west on Van Buren and cursed. The media had made a hero of Polanski. He would get calls from all over the city, now. From legitimate sources, to be sure, but also from every law-breaker in Chicago who had a beef against the police. It was inevitable that Polanski would eventually end up in Internal Affairs and then he would have his revenge against the honest cops who had done their job.
He cursed again.
Being a cop was difficult enough, but in Chicago, a city that thrived on its politics, being on the job could be downright painful. But it was the job stress that engendered the camaraderie that existed between the men and women of the CPD. There was no better adhesive than a common enemy, and nearly every cop, given enough time in uniform, began to define the enemy as anyone who didn’t stand with them. The CPD, like any law enforcement agency, was a band of brothers – a family, as Tertwiller had said. So when men like Polanski turned on one of his own, transforming himself from cop to “one of them”, it threatened the stability of the family. And no one did that. No one.
He was in the area now, past the Kennedy, and he slowed to look for the address.
Polanski scanned as far ahead as he could see. The Crown Vic was not in sight and since Campello didn’t have enough time to have gotten that far ahead, it was apparent he was not continuing south, but had probably turned west.
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