by Thomas Laird
“You think we ought to talk more with Mister Devereaux?” Lila proffers.
“I think so, but it’ll probably wind up being worthless, much like Maurice himself.”
“It looked like Al had him frightened,” she adds.
She sits on the sofa next to me. The couch is beige, a tasteful light tan. Everything in her place has enough class to make me wonder if Lila has rich parents. But she never talks about her family, either, and I don’t bring personal stuff up unless she initiates that kind of conversation.
“How come you never talk about yourself?” I ask her.
“What about me?” she smiles.
Her pink, full lips are doing their magic on me, again.
“Where do you come from? I mean I know you’re from the southside because you told me.”
“You mean you want the family history?”
“No. Nothing like that. Christ, I don’t mean to corner you, Lila.”
“I know…. My dad is an attorney. I actually grew up in Hinsdale, but it sounds cooler to say you’re from the southside. Sounds tougher, no? Only pussies come from the burbs.”
I smile at her, and she shows me those gleaming, crooked teeth.
“My mother is a pediatrician. She works at Christ Hospital in Oak Lawn.”
“So why didn’t you ever tell me all this?”
“I thought you might think I was bragging on them. I should brag on them, you know. My dad’s up for a judge’s spot, and my mother’s been a respected ob/gynecologist for a long time.”
“You have siblings?”
“A brother.”
Then she turns her face from mine, so I don’t pursue it. But the mention of the brother changed her face dramatically. It’s hard to read what’s crossing her countenance now.
“You want a rerun with Devereaux?” I ask, changing the subject.
She turns to me and comes right at me and kisses me hard on the mouth. Then she withdraws and we sit together in silence, my unopened can of Diet Coke is sitting on a coaster on her glass, fashionable coffee table.
“Well,” is about all I can muster.
“Yeah. Well,” she smiles at me. But she doesn’t come back for an encore to that shocking kiss.
“You better get back to your kid,” she says. Her face has gone sad. It’s in her gorgeous blue eyes. I can read sad on her, at least.
“I suppose so.”
Then I lean in quickly on her and kiss her the same way she did me. This time her arms come around my neck, and then I’m holding her around her waist, and we’re straining to get closer than flesh meeting flesh.
I kiss her again before I let her go.
“How advisable is all this?” I ask her, my nose about three inches from the tip of her nose.
“Not very, I guess.”
I release her.
“You have me confused,” I finally utter.
“Now you know how I feel,” she says.
5
The day after the encounter with Lila at her apartment, it’s as if it never happened. For her, anyway. I get the usual banter and the kidding and the innuendo, but she never says anything about what happened, and I don’t bring it up. If she wants to simply forget about it, then I’ll have to pretend I’ve forgotten it, too. But it’ll never happen. I won’t let go of it.
We spend our days working the two double homicides, but we’re reminded by our Captain Jackson that the cases are considered low profile because they are very difficult to solve, and in most instances there is no closure to the murders of prostitutes. They deal with dangerous people who are always shadowy, by nature. Their clients are fairly well versed in concealing themselves. Public embarrassment, if for no other reason, keeps them in those dark corners where they can’t be seen. We occasionally catch them, but it’s usually because of a dumbass mistake they make. Like leaving semen or fingerprints behind. But if they’re going to top a whore, they’re usually very careful about leaving calling cards behind them.
The truth is that most police have hardened themselves against feeling sorry for these victims. They figure these women, and sometimes men, are asking for it. They’re putting themselves in harm’s way, so they decide that their lives are somehow not as worthy as “innocent” vics. It’s the way it is, regardless of the media’s stories about police impotence in solving these kinds of homicides.
To me, one dead body is worth the same as another stiff—unless it’s a child who’s been snuffed. Being a father prejudices me against killers who do kids. I know it shouldn’t make any difference about their age or their profession, but it simply does. We’re all flawed, police included.
We get called onto a case that started out as domestic. The two geezers involved live on the far southwest side. We take the call because the old lady in this white couple, aged 77 (he) and 74 (she), get into a brawl, and the old lady throws a toaster at her husband. The toaster catches the old guy square in the temple, which promptly shatters his skull and causes death to arrive accidentally. It’s going to be accidental homicide, Lila and I are certain, once we’ve interrogated her, but we have to look into any kind of death like this. Something which was not caused naturally, I’m saying.
Catherine Tuohy’s reaction to her husband’s demise is what keeps us on site longer than we would normally remain.
“Is he dead?” she asks Lila.
Lila nods.
Benjamin Tuohy hasn’t moved from where he fell after she clocked him.
“You sure he’s dead?” she repeats to me, this time.
“You didn’t know he was gone after he lay there for all this time?” I ask her.
“I couldn’t be sure. I hit him with the toaster oven and he fell down. But he falls down twice a week, at least. He’s getting old, is all.”
I’m thinking Alzheimer’s, but I’m no doctor. I think we might have to call social services, but Lila’s already dialing it in on her phone as she walks out of the kitchen in this modest ranch home on the far southside.
“He’s getting old, is all.”
There are no tears in her eyes. She jumps out of her kitchen chair just a bit when she hears the ripping sound of the body bag being zipped up, behind her, near the sink. There is a small pool of blood on the white linoleum floor. I see it as the techs lift Benjamin’s remains up off the floor and place it gently on the gurney. Then they roll him out of the kitchen.
“He was just getting old,” she says.
We have other cases. We keep reminding each other of that fact as we drive back toward Old Town for yet another round of canvassing the streets. We park the car on the street and walk the routes where our four girls trod, night after night. Al Parker got that bit of information for us from the redoubtable Maurice Devereaux.
They inhabited about a square mile of Old Town. We stop at every new group of working girls we encounter. Some of them deny they’re working the pavement, but Lila has an intimidating air for those who would be untruthful to her. She gets in their faces if they try bullshitting her, I’m saying. Sometimes I feel like I’m the junior partner, here. I should be jostling these broads, not Lila. I should be intimidating them, instead of my partner. There is no good cop/bad cop deal with us. That crap is for TV, not for Chicago’s nasty streets. You can’t get anything out of a hoodie by being gentle, nor can you use muscle in place of respect. Most of these denizens of the neighborhood know not to fuck with Homicides because they know most of us don’t take money.
We stop in front of Mellman’s Deli. Vice gets calls from Mellman’s all the time to come shoo the hookers away from their store. Myron Mellman says it gives his customers the wrong idea about his business. He says they’ll get the impression the deli is a hangout for whores. So Vice sends uniforms down here to roust them, all the time. Irony is that these girls spend some cash in Myron’s place. The food here is notoriously good, and the hos have to eat, like anyone else. So Mellman winds up tossing potential customers away from his doors, but the food’s so damn good, they keep return
ing.
Two Hispanic girls linger near the doorway of the delicatessen. This time I make a move toward them before Lila does. She reaches for my arm, but I’m already in front of them.
“Can we talk, ladies?” I smile the best way I know how to smile at pros.
The grimace seems to work, and they both smile back at me.
“You interested in something special?” the better-looking one of the pair asks.
She was eyeballing Lila, who’s now joined our foursome, about ten feet away from Mellman’s entrance.
The weather is cold and damp. It reminds me of the scene at the Lake with Al and the procurer. The clouds hang low overhead, and it feels like it could flurry, today. It’s November, so it becomes a possibility, even though the forecast didn’t mention snow.
I show the pair my shield, and the smiles disappear.
“Shit,” the less pretty one says.
“I’m here about these four ladies.”
I flash the pictures at them. The photos show the living images of the victims.
“Their names were Helen and Tracy and Angela and Khala. You knew them?”
The better looking of the duo takes the pictures from me and actually studies them.
“Yeah. I saw them around.”
Then her partner takes a look, too.
“Yeah,” the second prostie chimes in. “I seen them, too. Son muerto?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Lila joins in. Her words are pretty well lathered with sarcasm, and the two working girls are aware of it. They may be ignorant, uneducated, but they’re not stupid, apparently.
“Anybody ask you two to go off with them for that something special you were talking about?” I ask them.
“You mean a threesome?” the attractive one asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
“We get it all the time,” the pretty trollop tells me. They’re purposefully ignoring Lila, and I know my partner will start to boil shortly. She doesn’t enjoy becoming invisible in these kinds of interviews. It’s not in her nature to stand in the background.
“From a white guy who wears a hoodie and drives a dark-colored four door ride?” Lila asks.
They snap their eyes toward Lila.
Then their focus goes to the sidewalk, and they suddenly become sullen.
“You know this man?” I inject.
Their eyes are still cast down, as if the principal has caught them smoking in the lavatory.
“Come on. Help us….Please,” Lila tells them.
The “please” doesn’t sound like her.
“They’ll just be four more whores flushed into the big toilet where all the other dead hookers wind up. Is that what you’d like?” my partner asks.
Lila is pissed. She didn’t enjoy being put to the side, a moment ago.
“I seen him,” the plain one says. “We both did. He tried us about four, five nights ago. Right here, it was. Drives up to that curb in his big shit Ford and asks us do we like sandwiches. We ask him how much he’s willing to pay—after we asked him was he a police. He didn’t look like a cop, but you never know with these assholes. Well, we just didn’t think he was…right. You know. It was nothin’ he said or done. He just looked wrong. And out here you got nothin’ to go on except this.”
She points to her belly.
“Could you describe him?” Lila queries.
“White,” the looker smiles.
Her partner smiles.
“You want this to continue downtown?” Lila snaps.
Her grin dissolves. So does the smirk on the face of her not-so-good looking associate.
Lila takes down the information in her notebook. I’m starting to shiver, but my fellow detective, Lila Chapman, doesn’t show a quiver. She’s as hot as a barrel on a recently discharged .38.
We take the two downtown to see a sketch artist. Neither of them saw or remembered a plate number, which is standard. The only time they’d look at a license is if a john stiffed them of their fee.
We see the artist’s rendering of our fellow. He’s Caucasian, about six feet one, perhaps 205 pounds. Not muscle-bound, but not flabby, either. They thought he might have gray eyes. The more attractive Hispanic girl remembered his eyes because of their unusual color. The other hooker wasn’t as sure about the gray. But I’ll take the first one’s word. Things that stand out like eye color usually are accurate. Unusual details stick with a witness. The average stuff gets all confused and distorted.
The artist’s rendition gets circulated in an all points bulletin. Every squad car receives the image. I don’t think it’s likely that we’ll pick him up on the basis of their description. How many white dudes fit that profile? Thousands? I’m thinking he only wears the hood when he’s out looking for prospects. The blue Ford is vague, also. What was the model? The girls couldn’t tell. They were out shivering their asses off, looking for a meal ticket at 1:00 A.M. in front of Mellman’s. They said he showed up about an hour before they were going to call it quits. Which makes sense, because the streets would be devoid of witnesses at that hour, or almost devoid.
Lila asked them if they saw anybody else out on the sidewalk when he approached them, and they both said the streets were mostly deserted, and that was why they were ready to call it quits for the evening. Early morning, in fact.
“You think he’d be using a borrowed ride?” Lila proposes.
“Might. If he’s in the life. If he’s a ‘citizen,’ probably not.”
“Why don’t we talk with Robbery/Auto Theft and see if they’ve got anything that resembles our guy’s mode of transportation?” she grins.
The list has fifteen vehicles that resemble a blue, four door Ford. We take down the plate numbers and circulate them in conjunction with our artist’s drawing of the perpetrator.
All we can do is keep looking in our Area. We both know there’s no rule that he’s not going to try expanding his AO, area of operations. It’d be the smart move because he was taking a chance by returning to the turf where he hit first. I have the idea that this guy is clever enough to know that he can’t shit where he eats. Location, location, location. Just like the real estate commercials.
I take Lila to Morty’s on our dinner break. I’m tired of pizza. Morty’s is a regular sit-down deal in the Loop. It’s a medium tier restaurant. In other words, you have to use plastic if you’re a mere mortal like me, but you don’t have to re-mortgage your house to finance Morty’s tabs. It’s reasonable, but it isn’t cheap.
I order a steak. She orders a chef’s salad.
“Why can’t you order people food?” I smile at her.
She sits across the booth from me. There are no Christmas lights, but the lighting is low and amber-colored and romantic. There is a single white candle enclosed in glass between us.
“Have to watch my girlish figure.”
I groan and she laughs at her cornball cliché.
“Nothing wrong with that,” I remind her.
She has an athletic frame. She isn’t big anywhere, but she’s very proportional. Which means very alluring.
“You still feeling hincty about the other night?” she says as she sips her beer. It’s after shift, so she’s allowed and so am I, but I’m sticking to the Diet Coke.
“As a matter of fact,” I reply.
“Don’t. It was just a mistake. My mistake. I was just a little weird, and you know how much I like you…”
My heart seems to drop in my chest. It’s the part about “liking” me that causes the descent.
“I don’t want to screw things up between us, Danny. I don’t want to lose you as a partner. I mean on-the-job partner.”
My pump has just about hit bottom.
“I don’t want to lose you either. As a partner, on the job,” I reply.
“Good. Good, because we’re right, together. You know?”
I nod as convincingly as I’m able to.
I read the menu, but my eyes can’t make sense of the words on the bill of fare.
She takes my right hand away from the menu and she grips it warmly in both of hers.
“You’re a really terrible liar, Detective Mangan. And so am I. But you already knew that, didn’t you,” she whispers.
I drop the menu and take her hands in mine for just a brief moment.
And then the food arrives and we eat in silence until our plates are empty.
6
We cross each other’s path occasionally, even if Kelly tries her best to avoid me. I catch her this time at the end of a day’s shift in mid-November. In a few weeks it’ll be Thanksgiving. We have no relatives to share the holiday with. My parents are both dead. My father passed six years ago, and my mother died four years previous. Both succumbed to cancer. Both were heavy smokers, but Mom was the heavy drinker. She spent the last decade of her life falling off and on the wagon and attending AA meetings when she tumbled off the cart. I loved her dearly, but she was a true rummy and literally could not stop herself from enjoying gin, if there is a way to enjoy that piss. She loved her martinis, and she put herself to sleep most nights with a pitcher of them.
My father threatened to divorce her a few times, but he could never follow through. He loved her, and she loved him right back. But they were World War II products—my dad fought at Anzio—and she worked in a munitions factory, and booze and cigarettes were part of the equipment to stave off the misery of the Depression and WWII.
Mary’s people come from northern Ohio. The only time I saw them was at our wedding. Then they headed back to their 700 acre farm in Manchester, Ohio, and I haven’t seen or heard from them since. They never communicate with Kelly, either, so I don’t miss them even a little bit.
Mary never talks to her daughter, either, which is something I find much more difficult to swallow, but I’ve learned to live with it, sort of.