The Green Line

by E. C. Diskin

  “It’s in there. Suite 404.” He was back in the driver’s seat, looking up at the building, counting the levels. “That’s the top floor. I’m going in.”

  Abby stopped him. “Do you think it’s open? It’s Saturday.”

  “Well, there are several cars in the lot back there.” He nodded toward the back of the building. “And this is real estate. Weekends are workdays as far as I know.”

  “Wait.” Abby grabbed his coat. “What’s your plan here?”

  “I’m just going to see if anyone’s there. If it’s Callahan, he doesn’t know who I am. I’ll just act like an interested buyer, see if I can get a look around. And if he’s not there, I can charm the receptionist,” he said, with raised eyebrows.

  “Marcus, look at yourself. You look like a gangbanger. If I was working reception, you would scare the shit out of me.”

  “Right.” He removed the big medallion and grabbed a sweater from the backseat.

  Abby pulled her phone out and dialed. “Let’s see who’s up there first.” Then she spoke into the phone.“Chicago, Illinois. Weber Properties on Fulton.”

  She looked over at Marcus. “It’s ringing.” A woman’s voice answered the phone. “Hello. I was just driving by one of your properties. The one on Lake Street. And I was wondering if there would be anyone available to discuss the details of that property?”

  “Actually, my boss would be the only one to speak to and he’s out visiting our properties right now. Could I take your name and number to pass on?”

  “Oh, I’ll just call back. Thank you.” Abby quickly hung up.

  “Well?” Marcus had adequately transformed himself.

  “Whoever is in charge is out viewing properties right now.”

  He grabbed the door handle. “Okay, I’m going in.”

  “Wait!”

  “Abby, lock the doors. The windows are tinted. No one will even see you in here.” He sounded impatient now.

  “Hold on.” She was looking at the building and motioned for him to do the same. A twenty-something woman with long hair and a fluffy white coat was leaving the building. The girl from the auction. “That’s her.”

  He checked his watch. It was twelve forty-five. “Must be going to lunch. Stay put, I’m just going to check it out.”

  Before she could even protest, he was out of the car and running for the door.

  Abby studied the street, observing its diversity. It was definitely in the throes of urban renewal, that term she often read about in the real estate section. She sat for what seemed like hours, though it was only about fifteen minutes. Her stomach was growling. She hadn’t eaten a thing yet today. Neither had Marcus. The Einstein’s was just a block back. She did a quick check in her wallet, found a twenty, a pen, and an old receipt. For all she knew, he’d be in there another ten minutes. She wrote a note: Went to Einstein’s to grab us some sandwiches. Come pick me up! She grabbed the door handle. A car was pulling into the lot in front of her. She couldn’t see through its tinted windows. A red Porsche with spinning hubcaps. As it passed, she noticed the rhinestone license plate holder. It seemed so ridiculous. Like driving around in a giant gold chain. It pulled around to the back of the building and out of sight. Abby jumped out and jogged toward the bagel shop.

  · · ·

  THE fourth floor of the building housed several businesses. Marcus quickly found the door to Weber Properties but the lock was new and it took a while to get in. He entered quietly and slowly, waiting for any sound, any evidence that someone was inside. It was a large space, maybe fifteen hundred square feet. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high with exposed duct work and beams and giant sky lights. In fact, there were no windows on the walls, but the light from above flooded the space. He spotted another door straight ahead, at the other end of the space. Looked like another exit. To his left, the exposed brick wall was lined with black-framed photographs of various buildings in the city. There must have been twenty of them. He stepped into the room, studying each photograph. All nicely rehabilitated structures. Several three-flats and several old buildings with commercial space on the ground floor and what he assumed were apartments above. No addresses were shown.

  After studying the photographs, he turned back toward the front door. A glass-topped desk was just a few feet to the right of it. The secretary’s desk, he guessed. A giant oriental rug covered the dark wood floors. A frosted glass partition created a T in the middle of the space and another partition extended from the west wall toward the center. Marcus surveyed the space. Behind the center partition was a coffee station and a rest room, and on the other side there was a large, dark wood table with architectural drawings strewn about. Moving toward the right partition, he found a bigger glass-topped desk on the other side. A huge map of the west and southern parts of the city hung on the brick wall behind the desk. He noticed the United Center and Cellular Field right away. There were little pins stuck all over it. Flags and circles. There had to have been thirty of them. Mostly flags. He got in close and found Lake and Pulaski—the Quick Mart location. There was a flag pin marking the spot.

  The desk was covered in papers, notes, files. And then he saw it: a file labeled Reggie’s. The bar had been seized. But the legal proceeding to forfeit the building had barely begun. He looked back at the giant map and found the cross streets for Reggie’s—it had a circle pin marking the location. He pulled out his camera and snapped shots of the map and zoomed in on the other circle pin location. He needed to find out more about what was there.

  The front door opened.

  Marcus turned quickly toward the door. It was him. Callahan.

  He ducked, but the table, being glass, provided no retreat. Callahan was looking down, reading something, maybe mail, and heading toward the center partition. Marcus heard papers drop, footsteps, and then the rattle of bottles as a refrigerator door opened. He creeped toward the back, hoping to get an opportunity to get to the back door. The frosted partitions would block the view, but he could see Callahan’s form on the other side, so he knew that he too could be seen if Callahan looked this way. He crouched under the wood table in the center of the room. The phone rang.

  Callahan walked back to the secretary’s desk and Marcus moved further around the center of the space, now behind the bathroom wall.

  “Hey. Yeah. I just came back from there. I’m checking the mail. Okay. Let me go grab a sandwich first.”

  Marcus looked around the wall. Callahan was facing the other direction. Marcus moved for the door, walking carefully on the hardwood floor that he feared would creak beneath him. He grabbed for the door as Callahan was hanging up. “Okay. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.” Marcus was out. He took the back stairs down the four flights and pushed the giant steel door in front of him. He was now in the parking lot behind the building and a red Porsche was parked right in front of him. He ran around the back corner of the building toward the street, toward his car.

  The front door of the building opened just before Marcus came into view. He froze. There was nowhere to hide. He leaned against the building and looked down. Callahan walked right past him, and then right past his car, while punching buttons on his cell phone.

  Marcus continued toward his car, watching Callahan walk toward Lake Street. He threw open the car door and hopped inside. “Did you see that?”

  He looked around the empty car.

  · · ·

  ABBY was gathering her bags and change from the boy behind the counter when the bells on the door clang. She had just grabbed some napkins and straws at the side bar and was organizing her packages while walking toward the door when a five-dollar bill slipped from her hand. She put the food on the closest table and bent down to get it. Someone bent down with her and his hand grabbed the bill before she had a chance.

  “Here you go!”

  Abby looked up at the friendly voice while reaching out to accept her money. Their eyes met. She froze. It was as if all the sounds of the world fell away.

/>   He looked at her with a curious face, like he was trying to place her. She waited without reaction, hoping he wouldn’t make the connection. Then he smiled. “Well, hello. Abigail, right? I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

  She didn’t know what to do. She stared at him.

  He stood then and pulled her up with him. “Remember me?”

  She nodded with caution.

  “Well, I should hope so. I’d be really insulted, otherwise.” He smiled again. Like they shared something. The pounding of her heart felt so loud, she wondered if he could hear it. She knew she should speak but couldn’t get anything out.

  “You never called me,” he teased.

  Her stomach turned. Bile was rising in the back of her throat. Abby looked around the room. There were a lot of people here.

  She faked a smile. “So sorry. I’ve gotta go!” She walked to the door without looking back and the bells rang out loudly as she pulled it open with force.

  Marcus had pulled the car up to the front of the building. Abby jumped in. “Go, go!”

  He pulled out onto Lake Street. “Abby, didn’t you promise to stay in the car?”

  She was in a panic. “He saw me. He talked to me. He called me Abigail.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing! I didn’t know what to do! I ran the hell out of there.”

  He tried to calm her. “It’s okay. He almost saw me too, but I got out. Come on, let’s go back to your house. I want to check some things online.”

  “Oh shit!”

  “What?”

  “I left the food. I bumped into him and just left it on the table! He’s got to know I was scared. He’s—”

  “Abby. Stop. At this point, I’m not going to leave you alone. This will be over soon. I can feel it. Callahan had a file on his desk for Reggie’s Bar. He’s involved with the police in these forfeitures. I’m sure of it.”

  · · ·

  TRIP stood at the window and watched Abby get in a car and drive off. He couldn’t see who was driving. He turned back and noticed her bagged food on the table. He knew that look. He knew fear. What did she know? He needed to finish this.

  Trip sat at the table and opened Abby’s bags. Two turkey and cream cheeses on multigrain. “Thanks Abby,” he muttered as he ate one of the sandwiches. He pulled a pen from his inside breast pocket and began making a list of what needed to be done.

  Call Patrick—go Monday. Right before work.

  Call Dominick.

  Get Tanor’s key.

  And it was just that simple.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ABBY, come here!” Marcus called to her from the guest room. He’d been on the computer for hours. Abby stopped working on her memo, though she’d barely begun, and took the steps two at a time.

  “Look at this.”

  The screen was filled with the photo of a boy who looked no more than fifteen.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Patrick Ellis. That’s who was arrested at Quick Mart for alleged drug trafficking. So that’s the guy who was here too.”

  “Where’d this picture come from? He looks so young.”

  “It’s from his juvenile file. I’ve been going through Callahan’s record from his time on the force more closely. We’ve seen him with the kid outside your place, and we know he didn’t arrest him, so he’s got to know him. I’ve done a little digging. Looks like Callahan is one of two kids. Parents live up in Lake Forest. His father owns Callahan Construction.”

  “Well, that’s huge.”

  “Yeah. Obviously comes from money. Mother has an architectural design firm—Weber Designs, LLC.”

  “Weber Designs. Like Weber Properties.”

  “Right. Mother’s maiden name is Weber. He’s got one sister. She’s thirty-six, lives in Glencoe. Two small kids.”

  “So, he’s obviously not related to this kid I’ve seen.”

  “Right. And I’m just trying to figure out the connection. See if it pulls this all together. It turns out Callahan arrested Patrick Ellis on three separate occasions back in 1999. Theft, a car-jacking, drug-dealing. The kid spent some time at the juvenile detention center. He was supposed to be held until he turned eighteen.”

  “So he would have gotten out, when? Last year?”

  “Turns out he got out earlier, actually. I pulled up the boy’s records from his time at juve.”

  “I thought minors’ records are sealed?”

  “They are. But I’m not on the Internet here. I’m in the internal Intranet of the Chicago Correctional Facility. All the top brass at the department have access to the correctional systems. Duvane told me the code.”

  He turned back to the screen. “Anyway, this kid never had any visitors the first year he was there. Then, in 2000, he had three visits. The visitor signed in as T.W.C. TWC Industries owns that Mercedes I saw him driving yesterday.” Marcus looked at Abby. “Like maybe Thomas Weber Callahan.”

  Abby went back to the big chair to process the information.

  Marcus continued. “And here’s the kicker. The kid got out a year early. Released in 2001, thanks to…,” he began reading from the document, “the testimony of the arresting officer who believes that he has been rehabilitated.”

  “So Callahan got the kid out three years ago. And now the kid owes him? Works for him?”

  “I’m going to find that kid in the morning. I’ve got the address of the halfway house he was sent to. I’ll start there. If I can find him, I think we have it. We get him to turn on Callahan and maybe he can even name other cops.”

  Abby didn’t let him finish. “But you’ll stay here again tonight?”

  He’d been at her place since Friday night and it was a lot more comforting than her alarm system.

  Marcus smiled. “Yes. And tomorrow, Abby, you go to work. You stay there and if you haven’t heard from me by the end of the day, you call me. I hope that I can talk to the kid, get enough information that I can have Callahan arrested by the end of the day. But I don’t want you going home alone. And if anything happens and you can’t reach me, call Duvane. You still have his card?”

  “Yes.”

  “He knows all about you, Abby. We’re both watching out for you.”

  ABBY and Marcus were both up by seven. Marcus came into the kitchen with his jacket on and put down the coffee he’d finished. Abby was getting some cereal and bowls for both of them.

  “No thanks,” he said, looking at the cereal and then his watch. It was almost eight. “Probably best if your neighbor doesn’t see me coming out of your place at this time in the morning.”

  Abby had to laugh. She could imagine the assumptions Mrs. Tanor would make if she saw Marcus leaving her place. “Oh yes, go.”

  Marcus went to the coffee table, grabbed his gun, and put it in his ankle holster. “Now, you get to work too. I don’t want you here alone.”

  “I know, I know. I just need to finish getting ready. I’ll be out of here in about ten minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you later.”

  “Bye.” She poured some milk on her cereal and heard him barrel down the stairs and let himself out.

  Ten minutes later, Abby had eaten and dressed and was gathering up her paperwork. She had made some progress on the partnership memo, but it wasn’t ready. She thought of bumping into Jerry, having him ask for it before it was done. She couldn’t face that possibility. She might as well not turn it in. It would be proof that she’d slipped. She looked at her watch. Just finish, she thought. Nothing bad happens at eight o’clock in the morning. There was too much activity in the street, too many neighbors at home. She turned on her security alarm, sat down, and pulled out her draft.

  Thirty minutes later, she put the papers in her briefcase and grabbed her coat. Things were turning around.

  Buzz. Buzz. The noise startled her. Cautiously, Abby pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

  “Abigail, please come out. I need to talk to you.”

  “Who is this?”<
br />
  “Uh. Patrick.” She ran from the intercom to the window and peered out to the front gate. It was the kid. She ran back to the intercom.

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you. It’s about Ali Rashid.”

  She didn’t wait to hear more. She grabbed her briefcase from the table, put on her coat and ran down the stairs and out to the gate. But the boy had moved away from the gate. He was now by the curb about six feet away. Abby remained inside the gate.

  “What can you tell me? Do you know who killed him?”

  The boy looked confused. Scared. He kept looking down the street.

  “Please. Not right here. I…,” he looked around and walked about ten feet further away from her, toward the alley. He looked paranoid.

  “Wait!” She opened the gate and hurried up to him.

  “If you know something, please tell me. Are you working for Thomas Callahan?”

  He stared at her, obviously surprised by the question. “I…, I…, ” he looked down the block again, and then smiled at her. A smirk really.

  The tires of a police car screeched to a stop right next to them. The lights were flashing though there were no siren sounds.

  Abby, confused, but relieved to have a real officer, a man in uniform and a marked vehicle here to assist, turned to them for help. “Officer—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, two officers jumped out of the car with guns drawn, telling them both to freeze.

  Abby was dumbstruck. “Officer, this is a mistake!”

  One of them grabbed Abby by the elbow and pulled her toward his car. The other officer did the same to the boy.

  “Please wait! Listen!”

  The officer pushed her hands down on the hood of the vehicle and began to pat her down.

  “Wait! What is happening? I’m a lawyer!”

  The officers laughed. “Good for you,” one of them said.

  “And what do we have here?” His hand was in her coat pocket. He pulled out a big wad of bills.

  “That’s not mine!”

  “And I think we’ve got something here as well,” the other officer chimed in. He pulled a large bag of pills from the boy’s jacket.