by E. C. Diskin
“Office of Professional Standards. It’s where residents are encouraged to report police abuse. But it’s not doing great in my book. Says right here…,” Duvane looked at the notes again, “From 2001 to 2003, OPS received over seventy-six hundred complaints of police brutality. And guess how many of those complaints ended in discipline against the officers?”
Marcus shrugged.
“Thirteen.”
“Shit.”
“Granted, there are some bogus claims filed, but come on. This is the problem, Marcus. This means that the officers know there’s less than a one in one thousand chance of being fired for their actions. And honestly, I think you and I may be the only ones in the Chicago Police Department who are concerned.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you got the job.”
Duvane sat back, drank his soda, and wiped his mouth. “Yeah, well, I never would have if it hadn’t been for that trial last spring. When a ten-person jury finds the City of Chicago guilty of systematically covering up criminal violence of its officers, heads are gonna roll. And you’ve seen our mayor. You knew he’d put some pressure on the force to improve—at least public perception, anyway.”
“Like maybe promoting a black commander to take over the Internal Affairs Division.”
“Cheers to that!” Duvane raised his glass. “Now this woman, she’s filed suit against the department and has named three of the officers involved. They’ve been put on leave for now. That’s three less pieces of shit I need to worry about. But the fourth one, I need a name. I want you to see what you can find out. Her claims, if true, are just the sort of shit I need to deal with most. Apparently, the cops around the projects are terrorizing the residents. Planting drugs, stealing money. Some even show up on the first and the fifteenth of the month.”
“Payday,” Marcus added.
“Exactly. I want to create a criminal case against all of them. Send a message that we don’t tolerate this shit.”
“Got it.”
FOURTEEN
TRIP stared up at the city map, a blown-up version of the west side that stretched three feet across the brick wall behind his massive glass desk. With little flag and circle pins on the various properties, he could easily survey his acquisitions and targets. He’d already sold ten properties to other developers who were doing as Trip was, sort of. Quick profits had been parlayed into more capital for further buys. He now had seven properties around both United Center and Cellular Field, at least ten more under investigation, and he was finally operating on his own profits. Things were going well. He just needed to get Reggie’s and the Madison property and he’d have the necessary diversity. A little commercial, a little mixed-use, a little residential, all with great potential in emerging neighborhoods.
“And who says you need money to start a business?” Trip said to himself with a satisfied smile as he looked around his loft—with its mod/chic interior, as his mother had called it.
The front door flew open. “Morning!” Lisa said, with that sultry voice that had been part of the reason he’d hired her. He looked over at the twenty-four-year-old by the door as she shook off the snow and removed her coat and hat, revealing her super-snug cashmere V-neck—a Christmas gift from Trip—and a suede mini skirt, which would provide optimal viewing once she sat at her desk. She shook her hair and let it fall down her back, just as Trip had requested. “All men love long hair,” he had advised in the interview. “Don’t hide it.” She had seemed flattered at the time and had always worn it down. After trading her Ugg boots for three inch heels, she headed to the kitchen and offered, “Coffee?”
“Yes, please!” She was a good hire—right out of college, smart enough to do the work, eager, and naive—a great combination.
Lisa put a napkin on his desk and handed over his coffee.
“Thanks. So, how did the auction go yesterday? Did we get the building?”
“Sure did. Seventy-five thousand.”
“Nice. Any competition?”
“Not really. There were only three of us there, and one woman didn’t even bid. The man dropped out at seventy.”
“Woman?” That didn’t sound right. People who went to auctions investigated the property in advance. Potential buyers came with checks in hand. No one went unless interested.
“Yeah. A redhead. Maybe twenty-nine or thirty, I’d guess. Pretty. She asked about the stuff. She didn’t know the process.”
“Did you get her name?”
“Something with a ‘D’ I think, and Irish sounding,…Donolley, maybe?”
Trip sipped his coffee.
Lisa walked to her desk and then yelled over her shoulder, “No, Donovan. That’s right.”
Trip nearly choked. “Abigail Donovan?”
Lisa was sitting at her own smaller glass-topped desk not twenty feet away, pulling up the e-mails. “Yes, that sounds right. Do you know her?”
“Yes I do,” he said only to himself. He looked back up at the map of the city. He removed the circle pin that had been on the corner of Pulaski and Lake, the Quick Mart building, and replaced it with a small flag pin. What was she doing at that auction? He thought back to the other night. He’d been so hopeful of the potential, but she’d already proved to be disappointing. The thought of it pissed him off. He looked over at the circle pin on the Reggie’s Bar & Grill address. “You’ve got no business there, Abby.”
Trip sat in silence as the wheels began to turn. He made a note to call Patrick. Just for insurance. “Don’t fuck this up for me, Abby.”
The phone rang and Trip livened up with the confident air that this latest disturbance could be handled. It was his mother.
“Hey, Mom, so you want to look at my property today?”
“Honey, that’s why I’m calling. I know I said I’d come downtown today, but my car wouldn’t start this morning. Your father dropped me off at my Wilmette job and I’ve got maybe forty-five minutes left of work. I was thinking you could pick me up and we could go into town for lunch. Bring me some pictures of the property and we can talk about what you have in mind.”
“No problem. It’s on Sheridan, right?”
“Yes, it’s at 1014. Limestone facade, tile roof, lake-side.”
“Yeah, I remember it. I’ll be there in forty-five.”
· · ·
ABBY sat at the conference table staring at the clock. The Prince Industries deposition was scheduled for nine o’clock. She had worked late into the night Tuesday to make up for the two-hour field trip to Quick Mart and spent most of the night tossing around with questions and worries and thoughts and depression at the realization that there was no one to talk to. She was exhausted.
Opposing counsel called just after nine with some crisis, asking to reschedule, and Abby breathed a sigh of relief. She went back to her desk, paralyzed with indecision, lack of focus, distraction. She’d lost her rhythm. She couldn’t get into her day.
After staring at the phone number in front of her for ten minutes, she finally decided to make the call.
A half hour later, she grabbed her coat and headed to Starbucks. It felt great to get outside and breathe some fresh air. The sun was making an appearance for the first time in what seemed like weeks, and Abby needed to feel its warmth on her face, even if it was only thirty degrees outside.
A man came up behind Abby in line at Starbucks and she quickly turned around to see him. Just a stranger. They both gave embarrassed smiles. She felt paranoid, jumpy, so strange about everything.
She grabbed her latte, sat by the window with a good view of the people outside and the customers inside, and waited.
Detective Henton arrived about fifteen minutes later, looking nothing like that night she first saw him, except for that scar. It was hard not to stare at it. Now that he was here, she was nervous. Would he be angry about this frivolous meeting?
His smile relaxed her. “Hello again, Ms. Donovan,” he offered, extending his hand. “Shall I sit?”
“Please, thanks so much for comi
ng. I feel a little stupid for calling you. I just needed to talk about this and I really didn’t know who else to call.”
“I’m glad you did. Let me just grab some coffee.”
Abby watched him walk to the counter. He was massive. Obviously worked out. Something she’d never found time for. She sipped her latte and smiled nervously as he took a seat next to her.
“So, did you remember something else about the man you saw at Reggie’s?”
“No, I didn’t. I’m sorry, I just,…well, I guess…,” she hesitated, wondering what she could possibly say to justify this meeting. “I just want to know that someone is looking into Ali Rashid’s death. And of course that woman I found. I wonder about her too. I can’t believe that I stepped outside my little bubble, just by accident, and I ended up here.”
“And where’s that?”
“Wondering about a dead prostitute, dreaming about gang-bangers grabbing me, meeting a sweet man like Ali, and then hearing that he’s a murderer and maybe a drug trafficker. And then you—you show up and tell me you’re investigating police officers and show me a picture of some guy and tell me not to mention our talk with Officer Reilly, and now I’m just paranoid. I mean, is Officer Reilly…?” She hoped he might fill in the blank.
The detective sipped his coffee.
Maybe he was contemplating a response but she didn’t wait to find out. “It’s all just insane. I’m a senior associate at a big firm, and my whole purpose in life is supposed to be representing my clients. Working their cases, billing ridiculous hours,” she said with a roll of the eyes. “But I can’t do it. I’m screwing up at work. I can’t focus. I’m preoccupied. I keep coming back to all of this.”
“Ms. Donovan—”
“Please, call me Abby.”
“Abby, listen. I’m really sorry this happened to you. But you need to put it out of your mind.”
Yeah, right. “I went to the auction yesterday.”
“What auction?”
“The auction of Ali’s Quick Mart building. You know the government seized it, right?”
“I did, though I’m surprised it would be up for auction so quickly. Why would you go?”
“I was surprised too. According to the rules, it should take months even if no one protests the proceeding.”
“But why’d you go?”
It seemed silly and hard to explain. She took a sip to regroup. “I guess I wanted to know that someone was going to take care of it. It just seemed like the police swooped in and took his place—and he didn’t even get the chance to fight back. And then he died mysteriously and no one cared. I had gotten him a lawyer, you know.”
The detective was surprised.
“Yep. Ted Gottlieb, some hotshot criminal defense lawyer. And he was going to tear the government’s case apart. But now,” she lowered her voice, suddenly aware that she was talking about drugs and murder in public, “Ali’s dead, his best friend is dead, and their place belongs to some idiot little girl!”
“What?”
Abby smiled with embarrassment. It was a strange comment. “When I went to the auction, there were only two bidders. A man, Middle Eastern, like Ali, and some girl. Honestly, she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. White, well dressed, but really trendy clothes—young. I couldn’t imagine what she was doing there or why she’d want that building.”
The detective put down his drink and sat back. “Why do you say that he died mysteriously?”
“They’re calling it a murder-suicide. I’m sorry, I just don’t believe it. I don’t know what kind of evidence they have, but he was not suicidal. We’d just had lunch. And he spoke with such affection for his friend. I don’t believe that he’d kill him. I just don’t.”
“I’m sorry. I’m confused. I thought you barely knew Mr. Rashid.”
“Well, I kind of knew him. He drove me home that night. We talked the whole time; he met me for lunch to return my glasses; he called me for help. I saw the fear in his eyes, Detective. I got a sense of him. He was a good man.” She needed him to see.
He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Please, call me Marcus,” he asked with a smile. “It’s safer.” He had a great smile.
“Oh, right.” Abby looked around. What a strange world she was in.
Marcus continued. “I think Mr. Rashid’s case is questionable, as well. Not uncommon, but worth looking into. And because I have connected Officer Reilly to the Reggie’s Bar incident, where drugs were also found, I am looking into it. I don’t know about your friend, but when I figure this out, I’ll let you know.” He sat back and sipped his coffee.
“Really? Because I know I’m not family, and no one needs to tell me anything, but I would so appreciate it if you kept me updated on this case.”
“You got it.”
Abby could see that he was telling the truth. She’d now met cops at her townhouse—and Officers Reilly and Trask—but the only cop she felt like she could trust was the one she thought was trying to kill her two weeks ago.
She half expected him to rise with that comment, like the meeting would end. But he continued to sip his coffee. She had no interest in work so she figured she’d press for more. “So, has anyone figured out who killed that woman, the prostitute?”
“Police report describes it as a ‘john gone wrong’ situation. Other than you seeing that man leaving Reggie’s, there’s nothing.”
“Well, if they had sex, there should be some evidence on her body, right?”
Marcus smiled. “Actually, I don’t know what kind of forensic testing has happened at this point. Until you called last Friday with that description, that matter was not really on my radar. I’m focused on cops. I can’t worry about every crime that happens in that neighborhood. There were six hundred murders last year in Chicago. A huge number of those murders happened within that two-mile radius.”
“Do you know what’s happening in the case?”
“Well, I know the bartender was arrested for drug trafficking. I don’t think they’ve linked him to murder. The property has been seized.”
Abby immediately put her cup down in exasperation. “What? Why?”
“Abby, when drug activity occurs at a specific location on a repeated basis, the property is considered an instrument of the crime. Getting that property out of the hands of the drug dealers is one way police combat the problem.”
“Did the bartender own the property?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really looked into it.” He obviously saw no problem with this.
“You know, I read a lot of cases about this stuff back in law school. A lot of innocent people get pounded by those laws.”
“Well, a lot of gangbangers lose their BMWs and crack houses with those laws, too. And property owners are held accountable for illegal activity on their property.”
The advocate in her was rising. She was getting worked up. “I’ve read of police departments intentionally busting drug activities in valuable buildings so they can seize the properties and innocent owners get no rights to counsel and bear the burden of proving their property’s innocence, all so the cops can profit.”
Marcus tried to respond but she cut him off. “And I’ve read of a woman whose eighteen thousand dollar car was seized as the ‘getaway car’ after she stole a twenty-five-dollar sweater. If that’s not about police profit, what is?”
“Listen, Abby, I don’t know about any of that. From what I’ve been told, it’s a valuable tool in combating drug pushers.”
Abby stopped. Marcus was not the person to have this argument with. She was sure he’d see the matter differently.
She thought about Ali. “So is it just a matter of course these days? Go after the property wherever an arrest takes place?”
“Of course not. It really just depends.”
Maybe it was justified in the Reggie’s Bar case. She wouldn’t be surprised if that run-down bar was some haven for drug-dealing. She didn’t know all the facts.
“So, what happened
after I ran out of Reggie’s that night and you chased me?”
Marcus put up his hand to stop her and put down his coffee. “I’m a good guy, remember?”
Abby smiled. “Yeah, I just wondered what those thugs did? I wouldn’t expect that they went into the ladies’ room and found that dead woman, and if they found the drugs, I’d be surprised if they called the cops. I just wondered how it all went down.”
“Actually, I don’t know. That’s one of the reasons I’m now looking into Reilly. I find his report a bit odd.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I came to meet you last week, you said you had told Reilly you saw a white man with blond wavy hair leave the building. He only wrote that you saw a man. The file said ‘no further description provided.’ And I heard sirens moments after I followed you, but I’m not sure what would have prompted the cops to come. When I got back, the place was surrounded.”
Abby nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I was trying to call 911 when those boys came in, but I never got past the nine. We need to look into this more.”
“We?”
She smiled, embarrassed. “You, whatever. I just mean it sounds weird. And if I can help you, I’d really like to. You’re essentially doing this alone, right?”
“I am working alone. But I keep my boss in the loop.”
“Well, if you need a lawyer or maybe a little research, or just someone to bounce ideas off of, I’m a good listener.” She hoped he’d let her in. If nothing else, it was nice to have someone to talk to about all of this.
· · ·
AFTER Abby left, Marcus walked over to the Chicago Public Library on Congress. He went up to the computer lab, got online, and pulled out the codes for the department’s Intranet from his wallet. Within a couple of minutes he had internal police files at his fingertips. He looked up Michael Reilly’s record again. On the force eight years. Last four years, Asset Forfeiture Unit, before that, Gang Task Force. Six complaints of excessive force during arrest, but no disciplinary action taken. Typical stuff. Three requests for promotion. Passed over each time. Only notation: budgetary. One request for short-term disability leave. Denied. File said the request was so Reilly could take care of his ailing mother. It didn’t look like much. He closed the human resources files and went into the active crime file database.