Polanski turned west too, and began a methodical street-by-street search. Again, he could not see the unmarked squad. That left the possibility that Campello had either taken another street when he turned west, which meant that he had gotten a full block ahead while Polanski was reminiscing at the stop light, or he had turned into one of the industrial businesses that predominated in this part of town. At any rate, he could not have gotten so far ahead as to be out of sight. He had to be nearby.
Traffic was reasonably light, so Polanski slowed while scanning the parking areas of the businesses on each side of the street for the Burgundy squad car.
Campello found the address, a small apartment complex with a gravel-lined lot at the far end of the industrial area. He contacted dispatch and gave his location as he turned into the lot.
Polanski did not see the Crown Vic so he retraced his steps to the stoplight at which he had last seen the car and drove one block farther south before turning west again. As he had previously done, he began to work his way along the street, scanning each side for the squad car. There was a smattering of industrial businesses, a concrete manufacturer, a small trucking firm, a warehouse, but no signs of the squad car. If he did not find Campello soon, he would have to accept that the man had gotten away, leaving him in the cold again.
Campello parked nose first into the lot, facing the apartment building, and killed the engine. The complex was small, four units in a single building, all of them opening directly to the parking lot. A ten-foot-high earthen hill ran along the perceived property line to his right, serving as a barrier between the residential dwelling and a defunct concrete company on the other side. A second hill ran along the back of the apartment building and was probably designed to shield the residents from the noise and debris that had once been generated by the salvage yard that lay behind.
His eyes scanned the units in the structure. All of them had curtains in the windows and two of them had screen doors in place although the screens were missing. There were no other cars in the lot, and no dumpsters or other trash receptacles to suggest anyone lived there. A sinking feeling gnawed at his gut and he started the car to drive away, when he came under sudden fire.
CHAPTER 22
Polanski heard the sound of automatic rifle fire and immediately identified it as coming from a Ruger mini 14. He rolled down the window in an attempt to localize it, but the echo created by the building-formed canyon made the effort impossible. He floored the accelerator and pulled into the vacant lot that was straight ahead so that he could be out of traffic and contact dispatch. He asked for Campello’s last known location, hoping the man had taken the time to contact them.
The initial blast blew out the windshield, spraying Campello with shards of glass, and was quickly followed by several blasts to the radiator and then the tires, immediately shredding them, sinking the car to the ground. The shooter did not want him to escape and was taking pains to immobilize the vehicle.
The shots were coming from Campello’s right, so he opened the door and dropped to the gravel lot, immediately sliding to a position behind the left front fender. The engine block would provide a higher level of protection from the incoming rounds that the car’s body could not. The rifle rounds were powerful enough to penetrate the door of the car, making it a convenient tomb for its driver.
Another blast struck the passenger’s side of the car, rocking it. He kept his head down, but raised his weapon over the hood of the car, firing rapidly at the hill from where the shots came. He was immediately answered with a hail of lead and he balled himself behind the engine block. The slide of his weapon was locked in place, indicating that in his panic, he had expelled all fifteen rounds of his magazine. He ejected it and slammed the other one into place.
With Campello’s location, Polanski called for backup, indicating that shots were being exchanged, and then floored the accelerator. He had lost Campello at the light and the man had gotten farther away than he had thought possible. They were a mile apart.
The gunfire ceased and Campello slid along the gravel, careful to remain as close behind the engine block as possible, while looking under the car and toward the hill. He couldn’t see signs of movement, or any other tell-tale indicators of the shooter, and that concerned him. If the man moved under cover of the hill to the rear of the complex, that would put the shooter to his left, leaving him open to the man’s fire. The ambush had been well planned.
He pivoted to the left and began scanning along the ridge of the hill, just as the shooter popped into view with the rifle raised in firing position.
Polanski pulled into the lot of the complex that had been Campello’s last known location and immediately saw the man crouching behind the doghouse of the car. He was looking to the left, and Polanski followed his eye-line to the hill behind the apartment building. Over the ridge, he could see the shooter poised with a rifle in firing position.
He pulled his pistol from the holster and fired through the open window, forcing the attacker to take cover.
Campello was relieved when he saw the blue unmarked squad enter the lot from his left and skid to a halt, nose to nose with his car. The passenger’s door opened and Polanski tumbled out, landing on the hardened gravel just as a shower of lead penetrated the car, passing through the cockpit from which he had just come. He took position behind the right front tire of his car, which put him behind the vehicle’s doghouse and engine block, nose to nose with the position Campello had taken. The two of them were behind a makeshift fortress.
“What are you doing here?” Campello asked.
“The same thing you are.”
Campello nodded to the ridge that ran along the back and the side of the complex.
“He’s moved along that hill to gain a better position.”
“I’ve got backup coming, but—”
The shooter fired again, striking both cars with fury and showering both men with bits of steel, lead, and glass. Polanski could see that Campello was bleeding along his forehead and both sides of his face.
“You hit?”
Campello shook his head. “Cut.”
Polanski peered around the front of his car. “He’s still behind the building.” He continued to crouch and slid past Campello to the rear of the Crown Vic.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m going to take him out.”
“You’ve got backup coming, right? Wait until they—”
Another blast of fire struck the driver’s side of Polanski’s squad car, rocking it violently.
“We could be dead by the time they get here. He won’t see me reach the hill because his view is blocked by the building.” Polanski prepared to run for the northern edge of the lot and to the hill. “Cover me.”
He took off and Campello fired rapidly at the shooter’s position behind the hill at the rear of the complex. He held his fire as Polanski dove over the northern half of the ridge, out of sight.
The shooter fired again, striking both cars. Campello tried to return fire, but the slide of his pistol was again locked in place. This time, he was out of ammunition.
He peered beneath the cars toward the hillside. The shooter was nowhere in sight. From the distance, the sound of approaching sirens grew louder.
He peered from beneath the angle formed by the cars. He couldn’t see anything.
Then, from his left, the sound of crunching gravel. he turned and saw Bobby Longhorse standing over him with the rifle barrel raised and a confused look on his face.
Campello inhaled sharply. His weapon was empty and there was nowhere to hide. Longhorse had charged forward over the hill and toward the cars when Polanski had run to the north.
“Drop it!” It was Polanski’s voice.
Longhorse hesitated, keeping the rifle trained on Campello and his finger in the trigger guard.
Polanski came into Campello’s view with the pistol pointed at Longhorse’s head. “Drop it now or I will drop you.”
Longhorse lowered the
rifle to the ground and raised his hands.
Campello exhaled slowly.
Five squad cars were parked in the lot along with an ambulance. The deputy coroner was standing next to Campello, who was leaning against the fender of a marked squad car while paramedics examined him. Polanski stood alongside another squad ten feet from Campello, talking calmly with a shooting team. Longhorse sat in the back of the car, his hands cuffed behind him.
Campello’s hand was shaking.
“You OK, Frank?” the deputy coroner asked.
He was looking at Polanski and didn’t answer.
She followed Campello’s gaze. “That was a pretty gutsy thing he did.”
Campello sighed. His hand continued to shake. “Twenty years on the department, Barb. Twenty years and no problems. And then I’m involved in two shootings in a month.”
She looked at his hand. “You’re ignoring my question. Are you OK?”
The paramedic said, “He’s fine. Some cuts from the windshield, and he’s a bit shaken up, but no other injuries. It’d be a good idea, though, to take a ride to the hospital. Let them check you out a bit.” He tried to roll a bandage on Campello’s head, but gave up when the detective ducked his efforts.
“I’m not going anywhere. You said it yourself. I’m fine.”
“OK, then,” the paramedic said. “I can’t make you go to the hospital, so unless something’s changed, I’m out of here.”
He packed his gear and walked back to the ambulance. When he was out of earshot Campello said, “Have you got a cigarette?”
She frowned. “Aren’t you trying to quit?”
“Last week. Not today.”
She hesitated before pulling a crumpled package of cigarettes from her pocket. She handed them to him and he shook one free. He tried to light it, but his shaking prevented him from striking the wheel of the lighter with sufficient force. She took it from him, and lit the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and handed the packet back to her.
She shook her head. “You keep them. You need them more than I do.”
He inhaled deeply on the cigarette again. “What are you doing here, Barb?”
“I heard the shooting on the radio. I figured I’d be needed, but when I got here you were still kicking.” She smiled.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Campello said, noting an approaching officer who had the shooter’s rifle in hand.
“Mini fourteen. This thing is dangerous. Chewed those cars up like they were pancakes.”
Campello struggled to suppress the nausea that rose in his throat. “Take it away.”
The officer furrowed his brow.
“Get it out of here, officer,” he said, more deliberately this time. “I’ve seen all of that I care to.”
The cop shrugged and walked away.
“What’re you involved with here, Frank?” Barb asked. “First that little girl, Rita, turns up dead, and now you’re getting ambushed…”
“I wish I knew,” he said, watching Polanski as he talked with the shooting team.
CHAPTER 23
Because the attack had occurred during daylight hours in a city which had already seen two shootings in as many weeks, word spread quickly, reaching Alderman Aaron Green through a variety of sources and interrupting another boring interview. It was apparent that an open attack had been carried out against Polanski after the man had been lured to an isolated location. When this reached the public discourse, it would appear like an assassination attempt and outcries of a police cover-up would ensue. He had asked Delgado to be discreet, but the enforcer had ignored his wishes and acted like the animal he was.
Green contacted the man by pager and left a pre-arranged code. The four-digit number was an indicator that an urgent confidential meeting was requested. Such a meeting, by its nature, required face-to-face contact rather than a discussion over an insecure cell phone. Wherever Delgado was, he would immediately make arrangements to arrive at the Board of Trade office or he would call and leave a cryptic message indicating he was currently indisposed, but making arrangements to arrive in short order.
After Aaron Green left the message, he poured himself a drink from the bar he kept at one end of the room and dropped himself into the chair behind his desk. Below him, the traffic on LaSalle Street flowed smoothly, but silently. The leaded windows of his office not only filtered the sun’s rays, but the city’s noise as well.
He sipped the scotch and water with one foot resting on an open drawer. He was lost in thought a half hour later when he heard a rap on the door just before Delgado entered. As usual, he was dressed in black from head to toe, including his iconic black leather coat. Aware that Delgado represented the man who employed both of them, Aaron gestured toward the bar in an act of hospitality. Delgado shook his head and took a seat in front of the desk.
“It’s getting colder,” he said, pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time.
“What happened?”
He set the gloves on the edge of the desk. “It didn’t come from us.”
“What do you mean, it didn’t come from you? Who else has the moxie to pull off something like this? Who else has the clout?”
Delgado paused, nonplussed as usual, and said, “Think, Aaron.”
Green swirled the drink, then said, “Peter? My Peter?”
“Who else stands to lose if the cops keep digging?”
“You, for one.”
He nodded. “Yes, and you too. But hitting Polanski is the last thing I want to do. You said it yourself. He’s the media’s big star. If anything happens to him, it will bring unwanted media attention and that brings unneeded stress. There are other ways of relieving ourselves of him. We don’t need to kill him.”
Green sipped the scotch and studied the man in front of him. After a lifetime of kissing babies and sucking up when sucking up was called for, he had developed a feel for people and the lies they told. Delgado lived on the razor’s edge. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and nearly emotionless. And because he was so reserved he was not easily read. Adding to the frustration, he was also not a man who spoke linearly, preferring to speak with hints or innuendos, dancing around the truth rather than speaking directly to it. That made him difficult to assess, even for a politician. The only way to find out what Delgado was thinking was to ask him directly and evaluate the answer he gave in the light of his personality.
“How will you deal with Polanski?”
“Effectively.”
Aaron’s rising anger was fueled as much by the scotch as the flippant response. Still, he had to tread carefully. Paulie Vincent did not take rebellion lightly and it was Delgado who enforced Vincent’s decisions.
“And how would you do that, Tony?”
“That’s up to me. Your concern is to—”
“Tony…” His hand clutched the scotch glass with such force, he was afraid it would break. He set it on the desk.
“Leave it to me, Aaron. We have no desire to bring attention to ourselves. Our only desire is to run an effective business and to maintain the relationship with you that we’ve enjoyed over the years. I assume it remains satisfactory for you?”
“Yes. Of course.” Paulie Vincent had been a major contributor ever since he first ran for Alderman. Each election cycle had brought Paulie’s continued support, which amounted to a certain win. Aaron knew that his rise to head of finance had also been engineered by Paulie, and with an effectiveness that equaled his support during the campaigns. But there had been a downside to the relationship, too. And while it remained satisfactory, the costs were escalating.
“Good. That’s what Paulie will want to hear. He values your friendship, Aaron, and he wants nothing to stand in the way of that.”
“Of course.” Resignation replaced indignation. The will to fight fled him, leaving him with the same useless and empty feeling he had endured for over thirty years.
“Excellent.” Delgado reached for his gloves. “Do speak to Peter, will you? We simply cannot tolerate any more of hi
s antics.”
“I’ll speak to him.”
Delgado rose and slipped his hands into the gloves. “Remember, Aaron. We cannot let anyone interfere with our mutual business interests. Not even a cop.”
“I understand.”
“Not even Peter.”
CHAPTER 24
After their return to the 28th, Frank Campello was separated from Andy Polanski and interviewed by the shooting team. His interview lasted well over two hours and was conducted in the presence of his FOP attorney. The Fraternal Order of Police had long ago learned that police officers often need lawyers as much as the people they arrest and had developed a system of support that provided them with a high level of legal security to ensure they would not be condemned for performing their duties.
Most of the questioning concentrated on why Campello was at the location in the first place, since the tip had been phoned in for Polanski. The team also expressed concern regarding his ill-advised interview of Juanita, who the team regarded as peripheral, at best, to the investigation of Trina’s murder. The grilling had been intense and he left the room angry, noticing that the door to Polanski’s interrogation room was still closed. Polanski had captured Longhorse, so it was inevitable that the team would take a greater interest in him.
Campello trudged upstairs to the squad room. His weapon, along with Polanski’s, had been surrendered to the interviewers at the scene. It would be compared for ballistics against the bullets that were found at the scene for reasons of the department’s potential liability, and to be presented to the IPRA later. The weapons would be returned by the end of the day.
On entering the squad room he was immediately surrounded by the others who were still there and not out running down leads or conducting interviews of their own. He accepted their handshakes and pats on the back before collapsing into his chair.
“You OK, Frank?” Tertwiller asked, sitting on the edge of his desk.
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