Turner sat silently for several minutes and thought. The old man kept quiet. Turner moved to the edge of his chair. “What if it was Giles himself who was going to blow the whistle? What if he’d decided to end the sham? It would ruin his career, but he could drag down a lot of politicians. Maybe he had an attack of conscience. If he was going to turn on his backers, those in danger might be willing to do something vicious to stop him.”
Parelli shut his eyes and was silent for a long time. Turner thought he might have fallen asleep. When the old eyes snapped open, they looked pained. “You bring up an intriguing possibility. Young man, I have heard of no such problem or conspiracy. Gideon Giles never struck me as a man with any kind of conscience. I’ve never met a man more driven by ambition.” He cleared his throat, pulled out his handkerchief, and spit into it. Parelli said, “I may be old, but I still hear everything that is to be heard among the powers in the city. I will check your theory. It will take some time.”
Turner thanked him and prepared to leave.
Parelli waved him to remain seated. “There is something you must know. If you are even remotely correct, that shot fired at you could have been a warning. Rose was quite angry about that. I don’t control such things. I cannot guarantee your safety, but I will do what I can for her sake to protect you. The situation is volatile. People might want to prevent what you might uncover from coming out. Frankly that shot is the main thing that leads me to think there might be something behind your idea. When Rose told me about the shooting, I assumed it was random violence, but I checked. I was not told it was to warn you off. I will talk to people again. I am not so old that they can lie to me with impunity. I advise you to be careful. If I have been lied to, then I have a problem, but you need to be extremely wary. They may or may not be capable of murder to prevent a conspiracy coming to the light of day, but they would be happy to frighten you from telling the truth. Gideon may not have been murdered to shut him up, but people could want to be sure you aren’t a loose cannon.”
“I’m a cop, Mr. Parelli. I’m going to do my job. I have to solve this murder, just like any other. I won’t hold back.”
Parelli smiled at him. “Just be careful. Take it as a well-meant warning. I will do what I can for you.”
The bodyguard met him at the top of the stairs.
“I can see myself out,” Turner said.
The man mumbled and walked out to the gate with him. The man watched Turner unlock his car. As the cop opened the door the guy said, “If you ever come back here, you will be sorry. People can disappear in this city.”
Turner stared back for a moment but said nothing. He used his radio to call Area Ten. He left a message to tell Fenwick to go home and they’d talk in the morning. Nothing could be done tonight. Parelli would never tell him who his sources were, much less let him interview them. Turner wasn’t ready for taking on the most powerful politicians in the city. Supposedly the police department was much less political than it was before O. W. Wilson cleaned it up back in the early sixties, but one cop didn’t have much chance against the power that could be mustered against him. If the politicians were behind this, he could be in deep trouble.
He eased his car into his driveway. It was nearly eleven-thirty, and the lights were out in Mrs. Talucci’s house. A lamp burned in his living room. Paul could see Ben Vargas reading a magazine.
Ben stood up as Paul walked in. Ben was one of the few people Paul was aware of who still wore pajamas, at least the bottoms. Ben never wore the tops. Paul hugged the hirsute chest and gave him a kiss. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.
“You’re not glad to see me?” Ben asked.
“Delighted, but surprised.”
“I had to stop at Mrs. Talucci’s tonight. One of her daughters had some trouble with a car, and I came over. You’d given Brian permission to stay over at a friend’s house to study. Mrs. Talucci claimed a family emergency had come up and she had to go out, so she asked if I could look after Jeff, and wait for you to come home. I think she may have been fibbing. She uses any excuse to get me to stay over here, especially to be with the kids.”
“She’s an old matchmaker,” Paul said. “She won’t be happy until we officially get married.”
“I look silly in a white veil,” Ben said.
“But you look very sexy in a tux,” Paul said. They held each other and kissed. “Let’s go to bed,” Ben murmured.
Paul checked on the peacefully sleeping Jeff, then joined Ben. The pajama bottoms didn’t stay on long.
SEVEN
The next morning Paul asked Jeff about his homework.
“Ben helped me,” Jeff said. “He knows a lot of math.”
Ben, taking Brian’s place at cooking breakfast, added, “He just wanted to get his homework done so he could beat me at his Nintendo games.”
Jeff said, “He’s better than you are, Dad. He almost beat me once.”
Paul congratulated his younger son on his wizardry at electronic games as the front door banged open and Brian bounced into the room. He said breezy hello’s to everybody, grabbed some toast and milk, and started wolfing them down.
“How do you manage to be so energetic in the morning?” Ben asked.
“Big plans today. People to see. Baseball practice.” He paused between gulps of milk. He looked at his dad. “Unless you’re going to work and need help with Jeff.”
Paul hated to interfere with Brian’s schedule on short notice. His older son gave up huge amounts of his time to take care of his brother, and this was a sacrifice because Brian was a popular athlete with a busy social life. He knew Brian would do it, but one of Paul’s unwritten rules was to make sure both boys had their lives impeded as little as possible because of the help Jeff needed. Also, it was Paul’s problem that he had to go into work, not Brian’s.
“I’ll have to check with Mrs. Talucci. Somebody will have to watch Jeff.”
“Jeff can come to the shop if he wants,” Ben offered.
“He’d be in the way.”
“No I wouldn’t, Dad. It would be cool. If Myra is there, she might let me help. She did last time.”
“You shouldn’t bother people at the shop,” Paul said.
“It wasn’t a bother,” Ben said. “He and Myra like each other.”
“She told me she was a lesbian, Dad. That’s just like you and Ben, only with women.”
Paul patted his son’s head. “At least you learned something.” “So can I go, Dad, please?”
“I’ll have to check with Mrs. Talucci. That way if you change your mind or get tired, you’ll have a place to go.”
“How’s the case going, Dad?” Brian asked.
Paul shook his head. “I’ll be at work all day and probably half the night. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make Jeffs game.”
Jeff had recently joined a wheelchair basketball league. He wasn’t very good yet, but the coach made sure all the kids on the team played for at least four or five minutes. Paul had been to all of the games so far and even stopped in at some of the practices. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
“I can pick up Jeff at Ben’s and drive him to the game,” Brian said.
Paul told Brian he could use the van since he’d be taking Jeff. Paul would use Brian’s car for transportation.
“Pick you up at five, squirt.” Brian tossled his brother’s hair. Seconds later they heard the thud of his feet on the stairs up to his room.
Paul checked with Mrs. Talucci. If Jeff got bored or in the way, she would take care of him. Mrs. Talucci smiled when Paul said Ben would take Jeff to work with him. Paul also thanked Mrs. Talucci for getting him in to talk to Parelli.
“How could you be involved with such a notorious guy?” Paul asked.
“Notorious, ha! As far as I’m concerned he’s still running from me as I chased him down Taylor Street eighty years ago. Tried to steal a kiss in the park. Needs a good slap upside the head. Married Maria Borasini. She knew how to keep him in line. He did his
political nonsense and kept out of her way, but she died.” Mrs. Talucci paused. “I did help him with the children. Maria was my best friend when we were growing up.”
“Did he really introduce you to Frank?” Paul asked.
“Ah, yes. But I’ll save that story for sometime when I’m old and have nothing else to talk about.” As he began to leave she added, “Be careful with Giovanni Parelli. I trust him only so far. I raised his children, but still, I know he’s a crook. He will look out for himself. Be careful.”
Turner thanked her for the warning and left.
Paul called Ian before he left for Area Ten. It was nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, earlier than he would normally call his friend. Ian swore angrily until he realized it was Turner, then he just grumbled and complained. Turner said he would pick him up in fifteen minutes. Ian squawked protests, but Turner told him he wanted to talk about political conspiracies and Giovanni Parelli.
“Parelli doesn’t exist. He’s a figment of the conspiracy theorists,” Ian said.
“I met him last night,” Turner said. He hung up on Ian’s exclamations of disbelief.
Turner picked the reporter up at Clark and Diversey and drove to the Breakfast Club on Hubbard Street. Ian wore a longsleeve sweatshirt that said, NO ONE KNOWS I’M A SHIT, light blue jeans, and gym shoes with no socks. He kept his slouch fedora pulled well over his eyes.
“Disturbing my Saturday-morning beauty sleep is a serious crime,” Ian said.
“No one knows better than I how much beauty sleep you really need,” Turner said.
“You are forgiven for that crack only because you claim you met Giovanni Parelli.”
“Not a claim,” Turner said. “I did.”
“Any reporter in the city would give his left nut for an interview with the guy,” Ian said.
“All the reporters in the city are male?” Turner asked.
“The women would give their left tit. How the hell did you manage to get close to him.”
“Mrs. Talucci,” Turner said.
“Old Rose is a gangster! I always wondered what her connection was. She’s a sly old devil.”
“She always liked you,” Turner said.
“She’s also perceptive and wise. Now what the hell is going on?”
Turner told Ian what had happened. Turner knew that he could trust his friend to keep a confidence, even though Ian was a reporter. Plus he needed information.
After Turner finished, Ian said, “You could talk to Mary Ann Eliot again.”
“I’m not sure I want to trust any politician in this city. She’s probably okay, but I’d rather not, at the moment. And think about it. None of her leads has given us much of anything. If it wasn’t for Rose, I wouldn’t be this far.”
They arrived at the restaurant, which was in a converted home two blocks east of Ashland Avenue on Hubbard Street, just a block or so from the Northwestern railroad tracks. They were lucky, it wasn’t crowded and they were seated immediately.
After they ordered, Ian said, “You know this whole conspiracy to undermine the reformers that Parelli outlined has a certain sublime elegance, but Giles couldn’t have been the only one in the group who knew about it. He had to have trained the people who went to these groups to undermine them. They would be able to turn on him. How could he trust people who just showed up as volunteers?”
“The volunteers,” Turner said, “could go to as many different groups they wanted to. The key was that one person from the Democratic organization went to the various group meetings. That person would be trained from downtown. No need to trust amateurs who walked in off the street.”
“The conspirators weren’t volunteers?” Ian asked.
“Nope. They showed up as if they were volunteers. No one else in Giles’s organization had to know,” Turner said. “You believe what Parelli told me?”
“Hell of question to ask me. I wasn’t there.”
“Could it be true? You know these liberal reform organizations better than I do. Could somebody have been undermining them all these years?”
“I’m not sure,” Ian said.
“It was easy to believe last night,” Turner said. “It was spooky being in the house. I almost expected corpses to stick out of the woodwork. That it looked so ordinary made it even creepier.”
“Everybody lies,” Ian mused, “so what part of it would Parelli have been lying about.”
As a former cop, he too had suspicions about what people told him. They talked over all the ramifications of what Parelli had said as they finished their meal and had coffee and blueberry scones for dessert. Ian swallowed a last bite, brushed his fingers off, and said, “I think you’re in danger. I think Giles had people in most organizations. And I think the whole thing is totally screwed up. Can’t see how you’re going to find the murderer. What do you want me to do to help?”
“Your connections in some of the do-good organizations. See if you can’t talk to a few of them. Find the kind of person Parelli described. An obstructionist. I’d like to talk to at least one of them.”
“I know the heads of lots of these groups,” Ian said. “I’ll find out what I can.”
“See what you can uncover, but be careful. I don’t want you in danger.”
Ian pushed his hat back and revealed dark-red hair. Turner knew he only took the slouch fedora off to go to bed. Ian said, “I could take care of myself even before I was a cop.”
Turner drove to Area Ten headquarters. It was just eleven. Fenwick drove up while Turner was walking from the parking lot to the door. He waited for his friend, and they strode in together. They checked with the commander and the case sergeant to see if any new leads had come up before they’d gotten in. Nothing had.
Turner gave Fenwick all the details about his meeting with Parelli. They discussed it and agreed they’d have to wait to hear from the old man. They would try to develop their own leads with the politicians only if the old man didn’t come through or if he delayed and they thought he was playing games.
After working an hour they got a call from John Chester. The bar owner told them he hadn’t been able to find out anything.
For two more hours they plowed through paperwork. Over a cup of coffee and a doughnut, their first break all afternoon, Fenwick said, “Okay this political bullshit might lead somewhere, but what about these University people. I’ve been going through all the interviews with the minor office workers, peripheral people, and I get a sense that all was not good between Giles and the rest of the faculty.”
“When you and I talked to them, they seemed to be talking about only the usual petty jealousies any faculty would have.”
“Being around those academic shits probably warped your mind. I’m suspicious, and I’m not convinced. And I don’t like those academic shits. I want to look at them. I need to see their faces, watch them squirm. These notes don’t do shit.”
“Who’s going to be around on a Saturday?” Turner asked.
Fenwick licked the remnants of several doughnuts off his fingers and plunged through his pile of paperwork. He emerged with a list of addresses along with a cover letter, glanced at it, and said, “Says here that lots of them hang around the Quadrangle Club, plus lots of these folks live in Hyde Park. Let’s go visiting.”
In the car, Turner looked through the list of names. “Giles’s regular secretary at the University is supposed to be back from vacation today.” He found her address. “Let’s try her first.”
“Which one was she?”
“Gwendolen Harleth.” Turner hunted through a pile of forms, found the one he wanted. “Blessing checked her out. She was legitimately on vacation. Been planned for months.”
“Maybe the killer knew that,” Fenwick offered.
“Maybe,” Turner said. “She should have lots of background on all the university people.” He gave Fenwick the address on East Madison Park.
Madison Park lies between Dorchester and Woodlawn Avenues in Hyde Park between Fifty-first and Fiftieth stree
ts. On each end of the three-block stretch are iron fences and signs that say PRIVATE. It is one of 123 private streets listed in the Chicago street guide. Residents pay for all the upkeep. The one-way road winds through an urban sanctuary of trees, shrubbery, and grass. The street is lined with homes and luxury apartment buildings.
They pulled up in front of what was perhaps the most modest of the homes. A dark-blue Dodge van sat in the driveway. The sliding doors were open on the sides. Bags of groceries waited to be lugged into the house. A woman emerged from inside and strode down the driveway to them. She smiled at the cops uncertainly. They showed her their identification.
She was five-foot-two, wearing a tan warm-up suit with a hooded sweatshirt. Her graying hair lay flat against the sides of her head. Turner guessed her to be in her late fifties.
“I heard while I was on vacation,” she said. “One of the secretaries had my itinerary.”
“We need to ask you some questions,” Turner said.
She nodded. The cops each grabbed a sack of groceries and carried them in for her. They talked in the kitchen while she put away groceries. A sun room that faced west led directly off the kitchen. Bright light streamed through all the windows and lit up a jungle of green plants. Turner and Fenwick sat at the kitchen table. As she stored her supplies, Turner noted she did so carefully, placing each item just so.
Turner asked, “How long were you Gideon Giles’s secretary?”
“Since I started at the university, eight years ago.”
“Tell us about him,” Turner said.
She paused with the refrigerator door open and looked at them. Turner saw tears in her eyes. “He was a good boss, according to his lights. I had to set him straight a few times. I’ll never forget the first day when I told him I wouldn’t make or fetch his coffee. His mouth gaped open in the most amusing way.”
“You must have been pretty confident to say something like that the first day,” Fenwick said.
“No,” she said. “I just know what I will or won’t do, and I’ve been around the University long enough to know what was tolerated. He took it well. We had a good relationship. He tried to get me to do some of his political work, but I refused. Told him I was his secretary at the University, and I would do anything for him I could, but I wouldn’t get involved in his politics.”
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