SOME DEAD GENIUS
Page 8
“Well, there is one more thing.”
“Oh.” JaneDoe shot a baleful glance at her cup of sour puppyshit-brown liquid. Now also tepid and stale.
“I know,” Hsu sympathized. “There’s an Intelligentsia down the—”
“That’s okay. What’s your one more question?”
“I’d like to hear a little bit about you and Robert Gilson.”
JaneDoe sat up straighter. Her jaw tightened. Green eyes narrowed.
A moment Mark had seen a lot of. The one where the realization grabs and squeezes: I’m not a witness, I’m a suspect, they’re out to get me. A moment that normally was one of Mark’s favorites.
JaneDoe stared a hole in Hsu. Said, “I have to go now.”
“Ten more minutes.”
JaneDoe frostily declared, “There’s nothing I can tell you I didn’t already tell Ma—”
Behind the mirror, Mark and Doonie stiffened—Don’t use my/his first name!
—JaneDoe caught herself, slurred the Ma sound into—“Mauhhmmmm, y’know, Detectives, uhmmm—,” as if groping for the names.
“Bergman,” Hsu prompted, “and—”
“—Dunegan, right.”
Lieutenant Husak didn’t notice Detectives Bergman and Dunegan exhale in unison.
“They went over the me-and-Bobby thing in excruciating detail,” JaneDoe informed Hsu, with flat finality.
“I know. But sometimes, fresh ears.”
“You can read their report, with fresh eyes.” JaneDoe pushed back her chair and stood. “If you’re concerned your colleagues left anything out—” she stared into the mirror “—go ask them.”
JaneDoe picked up the cup of coffee sewage. With defiant eyes fixed on the mirror, she drained it. Plunked the empty cup down, told Hsu, “Thanks.” And left.
Mark wondered if JaneDoe understood, or cared, she’d just made herself even better liked.
Mark watched Husak, to scope his reaction.
Husak’s reaction was to whip out his cell and make a call. Said, “Husak. She’s leaving now… Okay… Good.” He hung up.
“You worried the guys are gonna miss a six foot tall babe drivin’ a red truck?” Doonie asked, assuming Husak had alerted the team tailing JaneDoe.
“I called the FBI,” Husak explained. “Let them know she’s leaving. While JaneDoe was here they’ve been bugging her apartment, to go with the taps they put on her phones and computer.”
“They got a Federal warrant?” Mark asked. “Off what?”
“Voorsts donated to radical lefty groups and Palestinian charities. The Feds told a FISA judge they’re investigating to see if his murder’s got national security issues.”
“Fuuuck,” Doonie crooned in admiration. He gave Mark a wry look.
Yeah. Now the real fun starts. Here’s where they find out if JaneDoe happens to be America’s only twenty-five-year-old who could multi-orgasm with a cop who’s investigating her for two murders, and not share. With anyone. In person, on the phone, or online.
Twenty-Six | 2011
Lou Mastrizzi’s kid sister Bobbi gave birth, which provided the perfect occasion for Lou to massage Tommy Tesca’s ego. Which had been Dale Phipps’ fervent suggestion.
Normally Lou would say fuck it, Tesca would have to deal. Tesca knew if he made waves…
Though what waves could Tesca make? If Tesca was so humiliated he’d blow off his profits in order to deny the Mastrizzis theirs, he might sabotage the operation. But how? Tesca couldn’t blow the whistle—he’d go down for multiple murder raps. So…?
Oh. Right. Tesca could kill Dale Phipps. Little guy was the lynchpin to the whole deal.
So that’s what Dale was worried about.
Okay. We could clip Tesca. But then the cops would investigate Tesca, and who knows where that would lead.
With twenty million—maybe double that in profits—at stake, better safe than sorry. Feed Tesca a treat.
Lou had that, thanks to his sister popping out her third: Invite Tesca to the christening. All it would cost was one more face to feed—Tesca was a widower, with no kids—and Tesca would live his wet dream. He’d be on the inside with the Mastrizzis, even if it was only for the christening of a girl.
• • •
Just needed to clear the invite with Dad. The Old Man, who regarded most of humanity as a taller, heavier species of head lice, had special contempt for Tommy Tesca. Dad never said why, and Lou learned young never to ask Dad to explain himself.
But Gianni was also the ultimate pragmatist. When Lou asked if they should whack Tesca or invite him to the christening, the Old Man pondered it for a moment.
Said, “Maybe he’ll stay after and help do the dishes.”
• • •
Lou wasn’t surprised Tommy Tesca showed up at church wearing a new suit. Lou was surprised, pleasantly, the suit wasn’t goombah glam. More like top of the line Brooks Brothers. Ace consultant Dale Phipps strikes again, Lou surmised, grinning.
Tesca thought the grin was for him.
Tesca floated through the ceremony exuding an angelic glow, as if being in church were a religious experience. And that, Lou prophesied, would be but the entry-level ecstasy; transcendence would be attained when Tesca was received in the holy of holies, Lou’s walled estate in River Forest.
• • •
And yea, so it came to pass. Behold Tesca the mighty artist-slayer, breaking bread with the Mastrizzi generations. Tesca kissing the cheeks of Mastrizzi women and cooing over the Mastrizzi infant. Tesca shmoozing with Mastrizzi lieutenants, made men, who were too solid to come out and ask what the fuck Tommy Tesca was doing there.
They joked with the nobody loan shark as if he were one of the guys. Threw in casual questions about what he’d been up to lately. Tesca replied with a sly grin, “Same old, same old.” Clearly the best fucking party of his life.
Which got even better when Lou invited Tesca for a chat in what Lou called his humidor—a weatherized gazebo nestled among large old trees at the far side of the back yard. The two of them ambled out there in full view of the Outfit’s upper management. Bliss.
• • •
“I’m not allowed to light up in the house since we had kids,” Lou explained, as they settled into throne-sized leather chairs. He sloshed eighty-year-old cognac into snifters. “Here’s to healthy living.”
Tommy chuckled.
They drank, and fired up exotic thigh-rolled Cubans that made Cohibas look generic.
“Fidel’s own stash,” Lou joked.
Tesca puffed, sighed with operatic pleasure. Thanked Lou for the cigar, and, for the eighth time, the honor of being invited to the sprinkling of Bobbi’s latest.
Lou murmured, “Non c’e’ di che.” It’s nothing.
Obeisance completed, Tesca asked, with a shrewd twinkle, “So, you picked the genius whose value I go increase?”
“Uh-huh.” Lou took a puff. Exhaled a long, elegant cloud. “Thing is, Tommy, this genius lives in Europe.”
Tesca thought for a moment. “Fine,” he assured Lou, with deep determination. And even deeper anticipation.
Fuck. The asshole is fitting himself out with a tux, a Walther and an Aston Martin. Three-hundred-pound Guido Bond of the Cicero Secret Service.
“Tommy… That’s a whole other world. Has to be someone local. Fits in, speaks three-four languages. Has resources in place.”
“Lou—I can handle this.”
“Tommy, no.” Said almost the way you’d say it to a dog. With about as much effect.
“I have done how many of these bastards now,” Tesca protested, “without any blowback, at all, heh?!”
“Not in Europe.”
Tesca flushed, getting angry. Which was not acceptable
“Think,” Lou commanded. “This is the only way that makes sense. And the work will be up to your standard—we’ve got a line on a high-end pro.”
The joy drained out of Tesca’s soul. Along with the blood from his face. Turned pale as a Norwe
gian heart attack.
No such luck.
Tesca, not trusting himself to look at Lou, stared at the floor. “This outside pro. He’ll have us by the balls.”
“Shooter never meets us, never knows who we are.”
“Someone will,” Tesca insisted, still studying the floor. “The cut-out.”
“He’s a gentleman of proven discretion. Makes good money and wants to live to spend it. You think the Old Man and I are idiots?”
Tesca flinched. Took a breath. Surrendered to reality. Raised his head. Whispered, “Never.” Tesca tried to puff on his super-stogie but it was out. “Just, heh, like you said, I was thinking things through.”
“Always important.”
“Always… So, who’s the artist?”
Ah fuck. “Tommy, c’mon. Long as you’re not the shooter, there’s no need.”
“What!?!”
“Tommy—”
“My own fuckin’ operation I can’t be trusted!?”
Lou studied Tesca from a great, detached, utterly unthreatened height. Long enough for Tesca to start to worry.
Lou said, slowly, “Look around. Look where you are.”
Tesca took the advice and the threat to heart. Put away his glower. Finished his cognac.
Said, “Heh.”
• • •
Thinking all the guests were gone, Lou and Gianni were alone in the den, discussing plans for Mom’s upcoming surprise 65th birthday bash, when in walks Tommy Tesca. Shit, maybe he was gonna stay and do dishes.
Lou stood; the Old Man remained seated.
Tesca thanked Lou again.
Lou thanked Tesca for coming. Hoped he had a good time.
Tesca nodded. Then just stood there. Looking at Gianni.
Oh shit, Tesca’s not going to… Yes he is. Poor dumb fuck.
“Gianni, could I have a word?” Tesca murmured; subservient, but insistent. “I—”
“No one gives a fuck what you have to say,” the Old Man rasped. “You don’t wanna put your money in this deal, you can stick it up your ass. Either way, only time I wanna see your lips move is when you pray nothing happens to Dale Phipps.”
Tesca’s lips pumped silently, like a suffocating fish’s. He managed to mumble, “I’d never—swear to God.”
Impassive reptile eyes impaled Tesca. “Smart. ’Cause your mama ain’t around no more to save you.” Then the eyes went human and things got worse. “A fine, fine woman,” Gianni reminisced, as a narrow lopsided grin creased his face. An ugly, boastful schoolyard sneer.
The implication went through Tesca like a harpoon.
Lou tensed, preparing to slam a forearm into Tesca’s throat.
But Tesca was paralyzed.
“Bye, Tommy,” Gianni said. “Been a pleasure.”
Somehow Tesca found the strength to lumber away.
Shit. Dad fucked Tommy’s mother. Which for the Old Man rendered Tommy lower than pigeon crap.
That was so Dad.
Lou looked at the Old Man and raised an eyebrow, silently asking the obvious about Tesca’s future.
“Nah, he’ll eat it,” Gianni declared, with a grin. Genuine grin. Most sincere satisfaction he’d shown all day.
Twenty-Seven | 2012
Mark began his workday. Turned his computer on. Stared across the room at JaneDoe’s photo on the murder board, linked by arrows to photos of two corpses. And here we go. Mark pulled up links to the overnight field reports. One was the surveillance log from the cops shadowing JaneDoe. The other was a transcript of the FBI bugs and taps on JaneDoe. Always save the best for last; Mark started with the surveillance log.
4:17 P.M. Subject left Area Four in her vehicle. 4:43 P.M. Subject arrived at her residence. 10:49 P.M. Subject drove to Logan Square and entered the apartment of Kate Scott and husband Greg Neal. 11:50 P.M., all three took a taxi to a dance club. 4:08 A.M., Subject and her companions returned to the Scott-Neal apartment. All three emerged at 12:49 P.M. and went to Ina’s restaurant for breakfast. At 2:11 P.M. the Subject drove back to her residence.
Which added up to JaneDoe being so spooked by the realization she was a murder suspect that she couldn’t spend the night alone. A normal reaction for an innocent person. Or a guilty one.
Mark clicked on the link to the Feebs’ eavesdropping.
A gripping read. Mark gave it five stars. Page-turning suspense and a happy ending: JaneDoe hadn’t said anything serial killerish. Or anything about being on a first-name, pants-down basis with a Detective Bergman.
Unless JaneDoe had said something about sleeping with Mark, and the FBI had redacted it, so Mark wouldn’t know they were on to him. That’s what he’d do if he were them.
Should he have his apartment and phones swept? If so, how often? It’s a bitch to determine what’s sensible in a situation where logic and paranoia are nearly identical twins.
Fuck it. What he could do is do his job.
Which was to go interview JaneDoe’s friends and associates.
• • •
Doonie and Hsu had worked up a list and split it. Doonie handed Mark their half. Mark read the names.
Anyone else watching would’ve sworn Mark’s face didn’t move. Doonie quietly asked, “Who?”
Mark gave his head a microscopic shake: Not here.
Mark called the POD techs who’d been scanning the street camera files. Maybe in the last five minutes they’d spotted a pedestrian or vehicle that’d been near both crime scenes. If that person wasn’t JaneDoe, Mark could blow off these interviews and start chasing someone who might actually be the perp.
Turned out the techs had suspended the wide survey. They’d been ordered to go back through all the footage looking only for JaneDoe and her red 2011 Subaru Forester.
• • •
Mark and Doonie got into their black 2009 Crown Vic.
Mark said, “Remember that vintage bowling shirt I gave Patty for her thirteenth birthday?”
“You mean the one she wore every damn day after you got shot, ’cause her wearing it was the only thing keeping you alive?”
“Got it at this vintage store I’d gone to with JaneDoe—back then, Janvier. She introduced me to the owner, they’re good buddies. Couple weeks later I went back, to find a present for Patty. The owner recognized me, remembered my name. We had a nice chat.”
Doonie scanned the list. “Lila Kasey, proprietor of Pandora’s Rerun.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Kasey knew that you and Janvier…?”
“Yup.”
Doonie shrugged. “When we get to her place you’ll stay in the car.”
• • •
First stop was the Marla Kretz Gallery.
JaneDoe’s art dealer was tiny, high energy and no nonsense; in her 60s and hadn’t bothered with a plastic surgeon. When Doonie asked what she knew about JaneDoe’s relationship with Robert Gilson, Kretz cut to the chase.
“You suspect Janey? Jesus. Waste of time.”
“Could you tell us some specifics about why?” Doonie requested.
“Specifically, artists are being slaughtered and you guys—how can I put this—are running around with your heads tucked firmly up your backsides.”
“Regular part of the job,” Doonie confirmed. “Look, it’s natural you want to protect your client—”
Kretz laughed—two short sharp barks. “Oh darling, if this were about protecting my income, I’d be trying to frame her. If you arrested JaneDoe for murder her price would triple.”
• • •
When they got back in the car, Mark said, “That thing about JaneDoe’s price tripling.”
Doonie eyed Mark. “You think Kretz would kill two guys on the off chance we’d bust JaneDoe for it?”
“What these two killings goosed is the value of the paintings by the two vics.”
“A collector who’s trying to cash in kills the artists and sticks Ken and the Beatles in their mouths, so we’ll think psycho,” Doonie mused. “There a way to find out if som
eone owns a bunch of Gilsons and Voorsts, and just started selling ’em?”
“Dunno. I’ll check with Claudel.” Mark said, referring to Detective Janet Claudel, Robbery’s art crime specialist.
• • •
Mark and Doonie interviewed the next three names on their JaneDoe friends and associates list. None said anything that moved the needle on whether JaneDoe was or wasn’t The Art Critic.
Just one more stop to make.
Twenty-Eight | 2012
Lila Kasey’s store was on Milwaukee, between North and Armitage. Heart of Bucktown, a neighborhood that had upscaled from blue collar to arty to gentrified in the blink of a decade.
So Pandora’s Rerun was now on one of the busiest retail stretches on the North Side. So the cops had no luck finding legal parking. Fortunately there was a hydrant in front of the store. Mark squeezed the big Ford into the space.
Doonie got out and ambled into the store.
Mark communed with his cell. Its spam blocker was snoozing on the job; first email was a sympathetic stranger offering to upscale Mark’s tiny penis—
Tap tap tap. Passenger side window.
Friendly face. Mid-fifties. Large alt-stylish woman, large retro sunglasses, large chunky jewelry, large coffee in one hand, a half-smoked Dunhill in the other.
She mouthed, “Mark?”
Busted.
He lowered the passenger window. “Hi.”
“Thought it was you,” she said, pleased. “Good thing I can’t smoke in my own store, might’ve missed you.”
Behind her, Doonie emerged from Pandora’s Rerun and asked, “Can I help you, Miss?”
The woman straightened up, turned to face Doonie. Mark got out and said, “My partner, Detective Dunegan. Doon, Lila Kasey.”
“Ah,” Doonie commented. Told Mark, “I’ll guard the car.”
Mark stepped onto the sidewalk. “Actually, Ms. Kasey—”
“Lila.”
“—we’re here to see you.”
“Me?”
“We’re working the Art Critic murders.”
“What could I possibly…” Lila trailed off, thought a moment. “Mind if we walk around the block?” she asked, waggling her not quite finished ciggie.