Lou’s message forced Jay to quit dicking around and make the decision he’d been stewing about since Dale’s first visit. If the Mastrizzis were closing in on Tesca, Branko’s window of opportunity for killing Dale was about to slam shut.
Even with Tesca just having whacked his third artist, the Mastrizzis still had their Sicilian hearts set on killing Damian Jung. Like after this Art Critic mediagasm, the cops wouldn’t be all over the sudden death of a fucking huge art superstar, “accident” or no.
Eliminating Dale was the only way to stop Lou from launching this payload of atomic stupid. Lou couldn’t take Dale’s place—Lou couldn’t be certain which paintings to buy, and was too smart to personally do the buying. He’d have to find a new art expert, who was cool with murder and could be trusted with tens of millions of dollars. Good luck with that.
Problem: Branko couldn’t have Lou suspecting it was him who killed Phipps.
Solution: Frame Tesca. Which would be difficult if Tesca died before Phipps. So it was now or never.
Jay needed a shooter who had no connection to the Outfit—Irish? Russian? Albanian?—and who worked fast.
Jay had some phone numbers; you don’t run a heavy construction business without every form of heavy muscle. But he’d have to find the right guy right away. Tonight.
And even then, say he finds a shooter who does the job. The shooter could dime Jay to the Mastrizzis. Which means after the shooter takes out Phipps, Jay has to have someone take out the shooter.
Lotta moving parts. Kinda sucks. But so does going to jail if—when—the Jung hit goes sideways.
Which is the worse risk?
He went dead still for a few seconds. Or maybe minutes.
He ordered his secretary to hold his calls and cancel his appointments. He went looking for a shooter.
And this wasn’t, Jay assured Jay, about how that smarmy pus-face dwarf twice today waltzed out of here thinking he’d made me his bitch.
Fifty-Six | 2012
JaneDoe adored William J. Potinkin. No surprise; the lawyer had been recommended by Lila Kasey. Potinkin was half-Irish, half-Jewish. Small, old and skinny—the way a five-foot-five strand of rusty barbed wire is.
Potinkin carved a path through the media scrum, slipped through JaneDoe’s door, accepted a kiss on the cheek, looked her over, recognized she was wearing her idea of conservative clothing, and said, “Forget it.”
“But—”
“You’re not going out there today.” Potinkin headed for the kitchen. He preferred hard chairs.
JaneDoe followed, protesting, “William J, I’m not staying under media house arrest any more. It’s obvious I’m not the Art Critic.”
“Not entirely, not until the police catch the real one.” Potinkin said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “You gonna offer me a seltzer or let me die of thirst?”
“Die of thirst.” JaneDoe went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Gerolsteiner.
“You only have to stay locked up one more day.”
“Why? That mob of gossip zombies isn’t gonna leave me alone until they get to chew on my brain, so I’m gonna go feed them,” JaneDoe said, plunking down a glass of sparkling water.
“You’re not ready and the optics are wrong.”
“Ready for what? They ask questions, I answer. Far as optics—” she gestured at her clothes”—I’m in my respectable plain-Jane outfit.”
“That’s what you think. Not that it would matter what you’ve got on if you went out there. It’d look like a perp walk, pure screaming chaos, you getting machine-gunned by questions, you’d get rattled—”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“—and you’d start sounding evasive, the darting eyes, the trapped animal looking to run and hide—because you’re not prepared, you don’t know what you must say and what you must not—and you haven’t rehearsed the most sincere way of saying it. But because I’m a great attorney and magnificent humanist and your check didn’t bounce, I’m going to save you. Tomorrow evening you’ll do a dignified interview with one of our esteemed local TV news anchors—winner to be determined by the quality of the ass-kissing they’ll be doing to land you.”
“Your ass or mine?”
“Guess. Tomorrow morning I’ll prep you the way I would for a cross-examination. And my PR maven and her stylist will dress you.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“The interview will go beautifully, the audience will see what a warm, wonderful young woman you are, and the rest of the media will lose interest because you’ll have answered all the juicy questions.”
JaneDoe took a swig of Gerolsteiner from the bottle. Took another swig. Surrendered. “I’m all yours.”
“I know. There is one more thing.”
“Yes, William J?”
“It remains imperative you keep your recent love life secret. If it became public now it would muddy the narrative. Cast doubt on your innocence.”
“How?”
“It suggests a scenario in which you are the Art Critic, and your lover, who knows your M.O., tries to save you by murdering Troy Horowitz. So you two stay away from each other—completely, no calls or emails—until the cops catch the real Art Critic.”
JaneDoe thought that over. Asked, “What if they never catch him?”
Potinkin went to JaneDoe. Kissed her on the cheek. Said, “Nine A.M.. I’ll bring bagels and lox.”
• • •
JaneDoe turned on her TV to watch William J deliver his statement to the camera mob outside her door. After the first sentence she muted the sound.
She went to her work table and removed the drop cloth under which Foam Mark was hiding. She studied him, unable to decide if he was completed.
JaneDoe picked up her cell. Put it down. Stared at it.
She could disguise it as a business call. Detective Bergman, I’m calling about… Considering what I’ve been through, I’d appreciate it if you kept me updated on your investigation.
Shit. Was it worth the risk, just to hear his voice? Yeah, it was.
She reached for the phone again. Stopped. Wondered if Mark was feeling the same way—it was worth the risk. Would he call her, just to hear her voice?
Fifty-Seven | 2012
Mark’s phone rang. “Bergman.”
Silence… Then the harsh “GHGHGRRRGMMM!” of a throat being cleared, followed by intermittent gagging: “S-s—gahaakkch!—sorry—protein bar—crumbs.”
“That’s what it sounded like,” Mark said.
Guy Stutz, the head POD tech, rasped, “Good news—I’m sending—gwuukk!—vid—grechhem!!!!!”
“Just send it. Then drink some water.”
“What was that?” Doonie asked.
“Stutz is dying, but he sent a parting gift.”
They watched the traffic-cam video.
Doonie said, “I’ll put out an APB.”
“Wanna nail down one detail first.”
Mark phoned Hsu.
Soon as Mark identified himself, Hsu leapt in with the answer to what she presumed would be Mark’s question: “The witness can’t give us a face. Just a broad nose, maybe. That’s all: A possible broad nose.”
“I’ll take it. That’s not what I’m calling about. Witness know what time it was when he saw the perp?”
“Exactly 1:42 A.M..”
“Exactly?”
“He checked the dashboard clock right before he looked up and saw the big guy. What you got?”
“At 1:42 your witness saw the big guy emerge from the walkway, go to the corner and turn west, walking toward Racine. Two minutes later, at 1:44, a POD shows a black 2011 Chevy Suburban emerging from Racine, turning east onto Lake.”
“Driven by a big guy with a possible broad nose?”
“Can’t tell. Windows are tinted. And no plates.”
“Still,” Hsu purred, pleased.
“Yeah,” Mark agreed.
Doonie issued an APB on the Suburban, noting the driver m
ight be a very large man, armed, and wearing all black.
Meanwhile, POD techs would be scanning footage from Lake Street to see if they could track the Suburban. Other techs would be checking the previous Art Critic crime scenes; this morning’s search hadn’t turned up any shots of a large fat male pedestrian, but now they’d be looking for the Suburban.
• • •
Mark and Doonie were updating Husak when Mark’s cell rang. Stutz again, having survived the protein bar.
Stutz tracked the Suburban heading west on the Eisenhower. Out of the city and down onto suburban streets, out where the cameras weren’t.
Husak said, “We still don’t know for sure that’s the Art Critic’s truck. Find anything to squeeze Phipps?”
“Nothin’ yet,” Doonie said. “But we still got a pile of Phipps’s shit to shovel through.”
“Well then.”
Mark and Doonie resumed shoveling.
Finished a little before 9 P.M., having found nothing in Phipps’ lifetime paper trail they could bash him with.
Doonie shrugged. “One hard question and he’ll be farting his head off.”
Mark nodded. “Go at him first thing tomorrow.”
Doonie yawned. “Yeah I’m done. Long fuckin’ day. Feels like a week since we talked to Phipps this morn—”
Mark received a third call from Stutz.
Mark listened, hung up. Told Doonie, “PODs just found a shot of the Suburban six blocks from Voorsts’ house—twenty minutes before Voorsts got popped.”
Confirmation the Suburban was The Art Critic’s ride. They were chasing the right vehicle.
“It’s burgers and bourbon time,” Doonie ruled.
True, normally. Not tonight. Mark’s long fuckin’ day wasn’t over. Still had to go meet Nick Rarey and find out exactly what the Feds had on him.
Mark said, “I’m gonna hang in here—still have to write today’s task force update.”
Doonie complained, “You’re getting old,” and left.
Mark bashed out the update, got in his car and went to a pay phone. Called Lila Kasey and asked if she could meet for a quick private chat.
Fifty-Eight | 2012
They talked in Mark’s car.
As usual, Lila Kasey was dressed like Joan Crawford on acid and chain-smoking like it was 1952.
Mark asked if she’d be willing to deliver a message to JaneDoe.
Lila peered at him thoughtfully, took a drag on her Dunhill. Exhaled. Said, “JaneDoe’s phones are tapped. If they weren’t, you’d be using a pay phone instead of using me.”
“Gets better. Not only would you have to talk to her in person—you can’t talk in her house.”
Took Lila maybe a second to decipher that one. “You bastards.”
“Not us bastards. The FBI bastards.”
“Well that makes all the difference.”
“So you’ll do it.”
Lila gave him a stern look. “Why did you wait until now to warn her?”
“How? Tomorrow will be the first time she sets foot outside her house.”
Lila processed that. Stubbed out a spent cigarette and lit a fresh one. Asked, “Anything else you want me to tell her?”
“She can’t contact me. She has to wait until I can get in touch… Which might not be until this case gets wrapped up.”
“Christ. The FBI’s going to keep spying on her until this case gets wrapped up?”
“Probably not. But I’m not sure.”
“But she’s no longer a suspect!”
“But they’re still the FBI. And this case is still open.”
Lila sighed. “So all you’re asking is for me to tell JaneDoe she won’t be seeing you anytime soon, and the reason is her phones are tapped and her home is bugged, and will be, for we don’t know how long.”
“Wanna borrow a helmet and body armor?”
“They come in leopard skin?”
“Someday,” Mark promised. He handed Lila a burner phone and explained how he wanted her to handle things tomorrow.
When Mark finished, Lila asked, quietly, “There anything personal you want me to tell her?”
Five thick, rich seconds later, Mark whispered, “Yes.”
Lila gave him a pleased little grin, kissed his cheek and got out of the car.
Fifty-Nine | 2012
Rarey picked up on the first ring and issued a friendly, “Hey, Mark.”
“Where you at?”
“The Ambassador East, room Six-Twen—”
“Wrong.” There’d be cameras in Rarey’s room. “We’ll talk in my car.”
“It’s cool how you say that as if the decision were up to you.”
“Be on the northwest corner of Astor and Goethe.” Pronouncing the last word Go-thee, as required by local custom.
After a moment, Rarey said, “You do know the world outside Chicago refers to the great man as Gert-uh.”
“We don’t hold it against them. Ten minutes.”
• • •
Rarey got into Mark’s car, closed the door and wrinkled his nose. “Didn’t take you for a smoker. Or was it someone else?”
“Palms flat against the roof.”
Rarey grinned and complied. Mark patted him down. Didn’t find a wire. But he did fish a disposable lighter out of Rarey’s jacket pocket.
“It’s a genuine Bic,” Rarey said.
Mark tossed the lighter out the window and put the car in gear. “Don’t hide a recorder in a genuine Bic unless you’re also carrying something to smoke.”
“Whatever you say, Dad.”
“Did you a favor. Your boss isn’t only looking to get tape on me. He needs to hear how you handle being a handler. Now you can lie about how well you did.”
“I never lie.”
“Good. What do you think you have?”
“You and JaneDoe.”
“What about me and JaneDoe?”
Rarey pumped his right index finger into his curled left fist.
“So you’re a mime.”
Rarey pulled an envelope out of a breast pocket. “Transcript of the relevant conversation.”
“So you’re a mime who can type. I wanna hear the original vocals.”
Rarey took out his wallet, extracted a thumb drive, and placed it in the center armrest compartment.
“I told Ostergaard this was going to happen,” Rarey confided, pleased.
Sixty | 2012
Mark got home and went straight to the fridge. He hadn’t eaten since inhaling a sandwich at his desk that afternoon. Plus which, if the first thing he did was rush to the computer to hear what the FBI had on him, he wouldn’t respect himself in the morning.
He found rotisserie chicken leftovers that were, what, four, five days old? No, eight or ten. He feasted on a can of tuna and a beer.
Mark moseyed over to the computer, checked his email, checked the Cubs’ box score… plugged in the thumb drive, put on headphones and listened to what made the Feebs think they owned him.
• • •
The audio quality was awesome. FBI bugs were way more evolved than anything in the CPD toolkit.
But the FBI’s editing was Neanderthal subtle. Mark could tell JaneDoe had been having a conversation, and the other person had been deleted.
Whoever cut the tape tried to make it sound as if JaneDoe were delivering a halting monolog. But her inflections said she’d been responding to questions.
“The lead detective is a guy named Mark Bergman, and, four years ago we had a brief affair… Hadn’t seen him since. But then, right after Bobby Gilson was killed, Mark realized one of the Barbie totems might be me, and he came over here to question me and, uh—spent the night… Since then, except for police business when there were other cops around, we haven’t seen each other. Or communicated.”
Well all right. The Feebs only had one of his nuts in a vise.
This wasn’t JaneDoe blabbing to a friend. That would’ve been stoned, glib, intimate—JaneDoe being herself. This was Jan
eDoe being soberly informative. JaneDoe briefing the one person who needed to know about Mark, and whom it was safe to tell.
Her lawyer.
The FBI had let their bugs gobble up privileged conversations.
Advantage Bergman; the FBI couldn’t threaten Mark with criminal charges. The illegally obtained evidence wouldn’t be admissible, against him. But it would be admissible as hell as evidence the FBI violated the law—and be an engraved invitation to William J. Potinkin to bite them in the wallet.
So the worst the Feebs could do to Mark was end his career. They could accomplish that by leaking this recording to the CPD.
Which meant, bottom line, the FBI had zero leverage… if Mark could handle not being a cop any more.
Fuck yeah. Especially if the only alternative was to be the FBI’s tub toy.
The operative word being only.
Mark got some sleep.
Sixty-One | 2012
At 1:36 A.M. Dale Phipps made up his mind.
He inserted a thumb drive. Downloaded the files.
Inserted another thumb drive. Downloaded the files.
Inserted another thumb drive. Downloaded the files.
• • •
Jay Branko told the shooter his unusual requirements, which Jay prayed wouldn’t be deal-breakers: “You have to put something in his mouth. And he has to die in the next forty-eight hours.”
Zerbjka stared at Branko for a few seconds. Asked, “He has security?”
“No. And he lives alone.” That last part was a guess, but Jay figured no one could stomach waking up to Dale Phipps’ face.
“Very risking, to do such things in such hurry,” the bullet-headed Serb observed.
“Fifty thousand. Half up front.”
Zerbjka shook his head. “Fifty up front.”
Fuck. “Fine.”
“How soon you put this cash in hand?”
“Inside of an hour.”
“Sonbitch will be dead inside forty-eight. Maybe sooner. At which time you bring another fifty.”
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