“I didn’t do anything.”
“The police think you’ve got something going on at the club.”
“I don’t.”
“They say the girl who was found at the pier had ties to the club. And then there’s Rita.”
“Dad, Rita was a sick girl. She had a lot of problems. I can’t be responsible for anyone other than myself.”
“That’s the problem, Peter. You’ve never been responsible for yourself.” He swirled the glass and then drank. His initial anger began to subside, disappointment settling in its place.
“I am responsible, Dad. I run the warehouse and it—”
“Tony runs the warehouse. I run the warehouse. You talk on the phone and occasionally sign things.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair’s got nothing to do with it.” He set the glass down on a table beside the sofa and began using his left hand to count off the fingers of his right. “You flunked out of Harvard. You failed at Princeton. You got thrown out of U of C, and you are incapable of living on your own without an allowance and my help.” He sighed and rested his hands on his knees. “You’re thirty years old, Peter. When are you going to step up to the plate?”
“Mom—”
“Your mother is gone. It’s just you and me, Peter, and I won’t live forever. What will you do then? Where will you go?”
“I have the warehouse, the club, my—”
“The warehouse will go to Delgado and Vincent and you know that. And the club. When was the last time it made any money?”
“It makes money.”
“How, Peter? Booze and lap dances? Without the money I pump into the place it would be closed already.”
“The club makes money, Dad. It always has. I’m a better manager than you think.” He began to cry. “I can do things. I’m not like you say.”
Aaron softened, as he always did, and cursed himself for it. He put his arms around his son and held him close.
CHAPTER 33
Wednesday
7:30 a.m.
Campello arrived at Polanski’s house in the tan Crown Victoria. He had two large coffees and offered one to Polanski as the detective slid into the passenger’s seat. “I don’t know how you take your coffee,” he said, “so I got some creamer and sugar. They’re in the glove box.”
“Black is fine.” He buckled the harness and took the coffee from Campello who brought him up to speed on the way to the station about his interrogation of the DJ the previous night.
“He didn’t act alone,” Polanski said.
“Agreed.”
“And I think you’re right. I think he was gunning for me.”
“Which means you’re rattling something somewhere.”
“The only person of importance I’ve approached was Peter. I came right out and asked him if he killed Trina.”
“He denied it, of course.”
“How’d you guess?” Polanski drank the coffee and watched as the cityscape passed by his window.
“Longhorse has lawyered up, but I thought it’d be a good idea if you took a pass at him. See what you can get,” Campello said.
“Absolutely. By the way, just so you know, Christy Lee came by last night.”
Campello looked sideway at his partner. “What did she want?”
“She heard about the shooting, but was mostly digging about the trial.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“That broad doesn’t quit.”
Polanski shook his head. “No, she sure doesn’t.”
They rode in silence for the remainder of the trip and when Campello turned into the Castle’s segregated lot, he was aware of his colleagues’ scrutiny as he chauffeured Polanski to work.
Campello was stunned. “Peter Green walked? How could you do that?”
“Uh, lack of evidence?” Lopez said. “He arranged the hit on Polanski, Julio, and you know it. He even said as much. Just one day, and I could have gotten all you needed.”
“It doesn’t matter, Frank,” Lopez said. “The prosecutor declined to pursue charges.” They were sitting at a table in the break room, down the hall from the squad room. After opening a packet of sugar, Lopez opened several drawers in search of a coffee stir. Finding none, he found a casing knife in the strainer alongside the sink and used that. He tossed it in the sink when he was done.
Campello said, “I wanted to get him behind bars before he took off or made another attempt.” He watched as the commander drank from the cup while keeping his eyes focused on him over the rim.
“Frank, we want the person who killed Trina.”
“We had the person who killed Trina and you let him go. As soon as Andy began focusing on Peter the ambush happened. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Andy? not Polanski? not ‘that guy’ or ‘the turncoat’? So you guys are best buds all of a sudden?”
They sat at a table.
“Suppose I get the evidence I need on this guy?” Campello asked, ignoring Lopez’s remarks. “Are you going to keep him in house if I arrest him again?”
“First of all, Frank, I’m not the one who let him walk. The prosecutor makes those calls. And, yes. If you get some evidence that we can hold him on, I will keep him if the prosecutor will let me. That’s how it works, buddy.”
“OK.” He stood to leave.
“Where you going?”
“Andy is interrogating Longhorse. He’ll crack, Julio. Give us a little rope and he’ll crack.”
“I didn’t ask where Polanski is. I want to know where you’re headed.”
“To get the evidence we need.”
The blue CPD tag was in place on Juanita’s door. She still wasn’t home and that concerned Campello.
It would be pointless to tangle with Peter again until something more concrete turned up. Longhorse was the best lead, but if he didn’t talk, there was another lead that might. he drove to the address of the only functioning cell phone found on the list from Rita’s computer. The newer squad was in much better condition than the previous one, and skirted through the morning traffic. He was beginning to wonder why he hadn’t had the car previously and what that said about his standing with the brass.
He drove north along LaSalle, past his own apartment and toward the uptown area of Chicago. When he reached the apartment, he circled the block a few times, looking for a place to park, before finding one curbside, two blocks away.
Campello got out of the car and glanced around. Brownstones dotted the tree-lined street along with a smattering of older, well-maintained homes. Cars were parked along the curb and a large number of local residents filled the street, carrying grocery bags, retrieving their morning papers or simply engaged in conversation. The neighborhood was entrenched with longtime residents, people who knew each other well. They shopped at the local grocery, sent their kids to the same schools, and worshipped in the same church. It was the kind of place in which everyone should live.
He climbed the steps to the first-floor residence. He knocked and a young Hispanic woman opened the door. She had short hair with a smooth complexion and wore hoop earrings, a tight-fitting orange T-shirt and jeans.
He showed his star, eliciting a heavy sigh from the woman.
“Are you the one who’s been calling me?” she asked.
“I don’t know. What number has been calling you?” He flipped the badge-case closed and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket, glancing over her shoulder into the apartment.
She gave him the district’s number and then glanced over her shoulder, tracing his gaze.
“There’s no one else here, detective,” she said. “And you are the cop who’s been calling me, aren’t you?”
“I think so. It sure sounds like you have the right number.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about Trina Martinez.”
“Why?”
“Can I come in?”
She hesitated, b
ut then stepped aside, allowing him to enter.
Like Rita’s, the apartment was small, clean, and expensively furnished. Off-white walls bounced light around the room and the place had a light, airy feel. She had a collection of oriental dolls along one wall, and photos that Campello assumed were her parents and siblings on another. He recognized some of the artwork as pricey originals and classical music played from a Bose stereo that sat next to a rack holding a large number of Cds.
“Mozart?” he asked, taking a stab.
“Paganini,” she said, clearly amused.
“I’m a Beach Boys kind of guy.”
“Why are you asking about Trina, detective?”
They were both standing. He by the door, she with her hands on her hips.
“Trina’s dead.”
“What?”
He told her about the girl’s death, the murder, and the subsequent investigation. He did not tell her about the DJ or his suspicion that Peter Green was somehow involved.
“There’s more,” he said.
“More?”
“Rita Chavez is dead too.”
Tears filled the girl’s eyes immediately and she dropped onto the couch with her hand to her mouth. He sat next to her.
“You know something, Gloria. You’ve got to tell me what you know.”
“I can’t.” All pretenses were gone; all bravado had been cast aside.
“Trina and now Rita… something is happening and it’s tied to the club.”
“When did Rita die?”
He told her the circumstances and how he found her name in Rita’s computer, about Juanita’s disappearance. “What’s going on, Gloria?”
“They’re leaving. He’s rolling it up.”
“Who’s rolling what up?”
“Peter. He’s closing everything down.” She dabbed at her eyes with the tail of her shirt. “What do I do now?”
“What’s he rolling up? What’s he closing down?”
“The sex shop. He runs a sex shop where the girls are forced to perform in exchange for protection.”
“Protection from who?” he asked.
“From you.”
CHAPTER 34
Polanski sat with his back to the wall and his chair tilted on its rear legs. His eyes were focused on Longhorse who sat next to his attorney, a court-appointed shyster named Denton Kirkpatrick.
“So how about it, Bobby?”
“I don’t know, man. I just don’t know.”
“You help us and we help you. Your lawyer will tell you it’s a pretty good deal.”
“My client will want everything in writing.” The attorney, a man who looked to be in his late twenties with thinning hair and horn-rimmed glasses, alternated his gaze between Polanski and his client. He had been very quiet, staying out of most of the discussion between the detective and his suspect.
“Sure,” Polanski said, uncertain whether Lopez would go along with the offer. “I’ll get it in writing. But first, I need to know if your client has anything that’s worth my time. And then I need to know if he’s willing to come through. Once I leave this room, all negotiations are over and I withdraw the offer.” He studied Longhorse for a reaction, but saw none.
“Just a minute, detective,” Kirkpatrick said. “I want to speak with my client.”
Polanski stood from the chair and slid it toward the table. “I’ll be just outside the room. Technically, Bobby, we won’t consider that leaving the room. But your time is running out.”
He went into the hallway, coffee in hand, watching as others moving about the area worked hard to avoid noticing he was there. Although the ice had broken with Campello, Polanski held no illusion that it would thaw anywhere else soon. Most still considered him a pariah. Nothing short of a major event was going to change that. He drained the coffee, tossing the cup into the nearest receptacle. A rap on the inside of the door told him the attorney was ready to discuss terms and Polanski waited while the attending officer inserted the key, allowing him back into the room. He took his previous seat.
“My client will answer your questions in exchange for a reduced sentence and isolation while awaiting trial.”
“I can’t promise the reduced sentence, counselor, but I can speak to the state’s attorney and recommend it. As for the isolation, I can pretty much guarantee his safety.”
Kirkpatrick looked at the DJ and nodded. “OK,” Longhorse said. “What do you want to know?”
“Who hired you to attack me?”
“Peter Green.”
“Why?”
“He runs an escort service. You were getting too close.”
“He was willing to kill me because he runs an escort service? Are you kidding me?”
Longhorse shook his head. “No. Not because of that alone, but because you were closing in on him.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice as though he were relating the greatest secret in the world. “He killed that girl, man.”
“Trina?”
“Yeah. The one at the pier.”
“What about Rita?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know nothing about her. Nothing at all.”
“Tell me about Trina.”
“We was on the boat, his boat, and we were all having a nice time. I was spinning and the girls was dancing and everybody was drinking and having a marvelous time. Then Peter starts hitting on this chick.”
“Trina?”
He nodded. “Yeah, Trina. He just starts really coming on to her, you know? And she doesn’t want it. But he just wouldn’t give up. And I don’t understand that, ’cause he can have any woman he wants. The guy’s loaded. Babes are coming on to him all the time, you know?”
“Absolutely.”
“So he’s making passes at this Trina chick, and she’s saying no and goes out onto the deck. Then he gets mad. Really mad. And he goes after her.”
“Did you go out on deck?”
He shook his head. “Naw, man. I stayed below and did my job. I’m paid to spin tunes, not chase down women for him. So I keep doing my thing and after a while, he comes back down and he’s wringing wet. His hair’s wet, and he’s just sweating like a pig. And he says, ‘Bobby, you gotta help me. I think I killed her.’ And I said, ‘Trina?’ And he says, ‘Yes.’ So I take a break and go out on the deck with him and she’s dead. She’s just dead!”
“You didn’t see him do it?”
He shook his head and Polanski looked at Kirkpatrick. “Anything to add, counselor?”
The attorney shrugged. “It’s his story, detective.”
“Go on,” Polanski said to the DJ. “Then what?”
“Our first thought was to throw her overboard, but the party was moving to the upper deck and we didn’t have time and we were afraid of the noise, you know. So we rolled her up in a tarp and put her in the storage locker. By then a lot of the people from below deck were coming up and we didn’t have any options but to keep her.”
“So you tossed her in the trash when the boat docked?”
“Yeah, sort of. Except we didn’t dock. It started to rain so we pulled into the pier because some people wanted to get off and take cabs or whatever to their hotels. This was a big shindig, you know? So I carried her off the deck and dumped her in the first place I could find.”
“You dumped her?”
“Yeah, that’s what I just said.”
“So if we search your place we’ll find a Cubs hoodie with a torn sleeve?”
“Yeah. That’s mine, but it ain’t there.”
“What do you mean?”
“After I ditched her, I had to change clothes. I did that when we got back to Peter’s place. My clothes are there, including the hoodie.”
“Why did you have to change clothes?”
“’Cause I got soaked, man. The rain started up again.”
Polanski breathed slowly, deliberately trying to conceal his glee at the DJ’s confession. “And you’ll testify to this in court?”
“Sure. If you honor my deal.�
�
“Absolutely.”
Longhorse looked at his attorney who put a reassuring hand on his client’s arm.
CHAPTER 35
Polanski was in Lopez’s office, reporting on Bobby’s eyewitness account, when Campello entered.
“I’ve got some news,” Campello said.
“Get in line, Frank.”
Campello raised an eyebrow and took a seat on the sofa next to Polanski.
“I interviewed Bobby Longhorse,” Polanski said. “He lawyered up, but talked anyway. It seems he was on Peter’s boat for a big party. A lot of bigwigs at the thing. Longhorse said Peter was supplying women for the party and he started hitting on one of them.”
“Trina?” Campello asked.
“One and the same. Anyway, he pushed her pretty hard and she rebelled. He followed her to the upper deck and killed her. Bobby helped him dispose of the body. It was Bobby we saw on the surveillance video. Apparently, Peter is running an escort service out of the club and caters to the muckety-mucks. Judges, aldermen, some of the mayor’s aides… and that’s what he was doing at the party. Trina wasn’t part of that and Longhorse doesn’t know what she was doing on the boat, but things went crazy and she’s dead.”
“I have something that may add to his testimony,” Campello said, adjusting his position on the sofa. “When I was at Rita’s apartment one of the lab techs printed the address list from her computer. The list had Trina’s name, Juanita’s and several others. I’ve been trying to call the list, but all of the numbers have been disconnected except for Gloria Perez in Uptown. I interviewed her. She was resistant at first, but when I told her about Trina and Rita, she started to talk. According to her, Peter is not only running an escort service, he’s using illegals to do it. He puts them in a position of playing ball or going back home. He likes to prey on women who have small children, but isn’t choosy.”
“Juanita has a child,” Lopez said.
“Exactly,” Campello said.
“You think Juanita was coerced into calling me?” Polanski asked.
Campello said, “It’s a definite possibility. She was nervous when I was there. I assumed it was because she didn’t want to talk with me, for obvious reasons. But now,” he shook his head, “I wonder if she hadn’t been approached already.”
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