Her voice was a bit louder but still controlled. She was drunk. Just not as much as I expected.
“I know you were a cop. Gibbons told me.”
She nodded with the smallest of smiles. Looking sly for no apparent reason. Then she picked up her cigarette, almost guttered in the ashtray and drew down. I blinked and saw her at fifty-three. Alone, in a hotel bar. Still able to catch the occasional eye. Still on the hustle. She exhaled and the smoke filtered through a shaft of light coming in from the street. Now the face was relaxed repose. At fifty-three, she was pure class. On the beach, brown and healthy, she had a car with a driver, freshly cut flowers in all her rooms, and lunch on a patio with drinks. Two paths. Her future in the balance. Like everyone else, she’d make her choice. Some small decision would set the events in motion, lead her down one path or the other. Lung cancer in a trailer park or a home in La Jolla. The choice was there. Like everyone else she’d make it and never even know it.
“Your friend was trying to help me,” she said. “At least that’s what he told me. Now he’s dead.”
“You’re thinking it might be the guy who attacked you?”
“Thought about it.”
I sipped at my pint and stared at a sign that said GOOD DAY FOR A GUINNESS with a black toucan underneath.
“Makes you wonder,” I said.
She smiled again, in a way that was neither warm nor tender.
“Makes me lock the door at night.”
Megan came by. Elaine seemed better now and asked for a glass of water. I took out a notebook and a soft black pencil.
“Going to write me a letter?” she said and shook her hair free.
“Just trying to organize some thoughts here.”
“You should get a laptop.”
“You should be on a leash.”
“What’s the matter, Kelly? We’re on the same team here. You need to find the killer. If I’m right, the killer needs to find me. It works.”
“Using you as bait is a bad idea.”
“Because?”
“For one thing, dead clients tend not to pay their bills.”
“I still have a gun.”
I was delighted to hear my client was still packing and told her as much. She chewed at the corner of a fingernail and looked at herself in the bar mirror. It took her a while to get sick of that. Then she finished off numbers six and seven. Not a bother.
“Point is, Mr. Kelly, I can handle that end of it.”
For what it was worth, across a drift of smoke and chatter, she fit the part. At least on this night, in a warm bar, where talk was talk and not a matter of consequence.
I looked over my client’s shoulder, across the Shamrock, and through the front window. A dusting of snow fell quickly and softly, covering up the gray of Halsted Street. Lake-effect snow, Chicagoans called it. Beyond the white was the glare of neon, a tangle of traffic and people. A gust of wind blew the weather clear, a gap appeared between cars, and a single figure scooted across the street. Her head was covered with a newspaper. She leaped across a flow of ice and slush half congealed in the gutter and landed on the sidewalk. I was about to look back into the bar when the woman pulled her head up. For a moment, it seemed like Diane Lindsay knew exactly where I was and why I was there. For just a moment. Then surprise flooded her features. She waved, slipped toward the door, and into the Shamrock.
“Excuse me a second.”
I got up from my chair and intercepted the journalist before she got too close to my client. I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to meet. And was even less certain why I wasn’t sure. No matter, Diane was past me, Elaine already out of her chair and rearranging herself in a single movement.
“Hi, I’m Diane Lindsay.”
The two shook hands as if they had been expecting to all along. Diane sat down. Elaine sat with her. Diane talked to me, but kept her eyes on Elaine.
“The new client, Michael?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Aren’t you on television?” Elaine said.
Diane pulled off a pair of leather gloves, leaned back in her chair, and considered my client like she might a warm glass of milk on a hot summer day. Only when she was done did she speak.
“Yes, I’m on television. And your name is?”
“Elaine. Elaine Remington.”
“Nice to meet you, Elaine.”
Diane stuck a thumb my way.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need this guy for?”
“I don’t mind at all. I was raped when I was still pretty much a kid. Mr. Kelly is helping me find the bastard.”
“May I ask why?”
“Mostly so I can look him in the eye, show him the scars, and let him know I made it.”
Elaine took a sip of water.
“After that, of course, I’ll say a small prayer, pull out my gun, and blow him straight to Judgment Day. Amen.”
Elaine laughed so hard water came out her nose and she nearly choked. I glanced at Diane, who shrugged. My client continued.
“Just kidding. I was born country Baptist. Love that righteous vengeance sort of thing. You brought up religious, Miss Lindsay?”
“Not so you’d notice.”
“Well, I was. Me and all my sisters. We stay close even today. Religion will do that to a family.”
“I bet,” Diane said. “Let me ask you something, Elaine. You remember details of the attack?”
“Some. Why?”
“Just seems funny. After all these years, you show up here, looking for the bad guy. Even find yourself a hero.”
Diane leaned forward. Elaine leaned with her.
“Seems like maybe it’s a lot of bullshit, Elaine. If you know what I mean.”
Diane smiled. Elaine smiled back and slipped the shirt off her shoulder, just enough to catch a corner of her scar, still purple, still angry.
“Gotcha, Diane. Except they don’t give these out in ‘Let’s pretend we got fucked by a pervert’ class.”
Diane leaned back, pressed her lips together, then managed a sip of her pint.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes reporters need to test a little bit.”
“No problem, Miss Lindsay.”
The two women touched glass. Then Elaine stood up. Diane followed suit.
“I‘d actually love to hear the whole story someday,” she said. “So would my viewers.”
Elaine shrugged on her coat, slipped on a set of earphones, and powered up an iPod she had in her pocket.
“Maybe,” she said. “Let’s see how things shake out. Here’s a number where you can reach me.”
Elaine scribbled out the information for Diane. Then did the same for me.
“Don’t forget about me, Mr. Kelly.”
“I won’t,” I said.
My client reached out and hugged me. It was awkward but brief. Then she was gone. Diane held up a finger.
“I need a second with her,” she said and followed Elaine Remington into the snow.
CHAPTER 23
I sipped at my pint and watched through a funnel of wind and white. Diane Lindsay stood at the corner of Halsted and Diversey, her back to the lakefront, taking the brunt of the storm off her head and shoulders. Elaine huddled close, shifted her weight from side to side, and stamped her feet in the night. Now Diane leaned forward as she spoke, filling the gap between them with a tangible sense of energy. Elaine moved away, subtle but certain, her back foot taking the weight of her body. She didn’t seem to be saying much, mostly listening as Diane gestured. I wondered what was taking so long. I wondered how the reporter was doing. It looked like hard work.
Ten minutes later Diane returned to the bar. I had moved to a booth in the back and was working through a plate of bangers and mash. To my left was the notebook and pencil. On the pages were assorted thoughts, such as they were.
“What’s in the notebook?” she said.
“You’re in my light.”
Diane sat down. Megan took her drink order.
“Would you like me to move?” she said.
“No, you can stay.”
“So what’s in the notebook?”
I turned it around so she could read my scrawl.
“I’m just trying to figure out how many people have hired me in the past two days and for what. Best I can figure, I have at least two new clients.”
“One of whom is dead.”
“Exactly. And then there is you.”
“Am I in there?”
She pulled the notebook closer. I pulled it back. Her fingernails were painted a dark red and scratched across the page. It was a small sound but violent in its own way.
“Get your own notebook,” I said. “How did it go with her?”
Diane shrugged.
“Not bad. There are a couple of different things I could do with her story. I just wanted to let her know what some of the options were. Get her thinking about it.”
Megan put a hot whiskey in front of Diane. From across the booth I could smell the Jameson, scented with cloves. Nice drink on a cold night.
“What did you think of her?” I said.
“Your client?”
I nodded.
“She has some issues.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
“Why did you go after her so hard?”
“Why not? Sometimes it catches them off guard. Brings out the truth whether they like it or not.”
“And this time?” I said.
“She was raped.”
“Yeah, she was. Feels it like it was yesterday.”
“That can be a dangerous thing.”
“I know,” I said. “Gibbons was working her case when he was killed.”
“How did you inherit his client list?”
I moved my shoulders. Up, then down. Maybe half an inch. Diane let it sit for a moment, then shifted the conversation.
“I heard the DA’s office had you in for a chat.”
“You heard that?”
“I did.”
Diane checked her watch.
“I also heard they no longer consider you a suspect.”
“Does that kill your big story?”
“You tell me.”
“Still got a murder,” I said. “Still got an old rape to solve. If you want to tag along, might be kind of fun.”
“Is that all you got?” she said.
“What else is there?”
“Right before I left the newsroom, a call came across the police scanner. They found a woman’s body at Gibbons’ old place.”
“And?”
“I made a call. It was his landlady. A woman named Edna Mulberry.”
Diane took a sip of her whiskey, pulled her coat tight against her body, and looked out the window. On Halsted Street the snow fell, thicker now, wet and heavy.
“Hard when death gets so close,” I said.
“I talked to her two days ago, Kelly.”
“I saw her myself yesterday.”
“She didn’t help much.”
“I know.”
I wasn’t sure if I was playing poker or consoling a friend. I figured it was safer to assume the former. At least until further notice.
“Are you being straight with me, Kelly?”
“Maybe. How about you?”
“I’m a little shaken.”
“It’s called death. Used to get me right in the spine. Turn me cold all over.”
“You ever get over it?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Take it from me, you’re better off feeling sick to your stomach. Shows you’re human.”
Diane pushed her drink away and put on her gloves.
“You live near here, Kelly?”
“About a mile.”
“Is it warm?”
“I can try,” I said.
“Let’s go.”
We headed out of the Shamrock and into some sort of relationship. Short term, I was looking forward to things. Long term, maybe not so much.
CHAPTER 24
I fell asleep with a woman beside me, yet woke up alone. The phone rang and I picked up the receiver, expecting to hear Diane Lindsay explain why. Not quite.
“I’m twenty minutes from your house. Might be a good idea if I come up for a chat.”
His voice was flat. It reminded me of long afternoons in a dark saloon. The patrons drink in cheap liquor and recycled smoke. Each stares straight ahead into his respective past. In other words, it didn’t sound good. At nine in the a.m., especially so.
“And a good morning to you, Detective Masters.”
“Yeah. You got coffee?”
“There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on Clark and Belmont. Pick up a couple. I take mine Boston-style.”
The detective hung up before I got to tell him that was with cream and sugar. Maybe he already knew.
I rubbed my face in the glass of the bathroom mirror, took a minute, and put away the night before. She had asked why I kept my shirt on. I told her I was modest. She thought that was cute. The truth, however, stared at me in the mirror. Two bruises, small punctures where a killer had used me for a pincushion.
By the time I showered and dressed, Masters was leaning on the doorbell. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but he did have the coffees and a bag that looked full of what I suspected were doughnuts. We sat down at the kitchen table, split up a half-dozen honey-dipped, adjusted the coffees, and got down to business.
“Let me ask you something, Kelly. Do you work at being a fucking jag-off? Or is it something genetic?”
I took a sip of my coffee and contemplated the moment. It’s important to contemplate the moment when it’s a good one. Once I opened my mouth, the moment would change into something else. Maybe better, but probably worse.
“Exactly what’s the problem, Detective?”
“You know what the problem is. What the hell you doing over at the evidence warehouse?”
“Working a case.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
I dunked a doughnut but kept it in the coffee too long and lost half of it.
“Goddamn it,” I said. “Hate when that happens.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” Masters made a move to go. I stopped him.
“You want a shot of something in that coffee?” I said.
“You want to quit fucking around?”
I nodded. The detective drained his cup and held it my way.
“Keep the coffee and just pour the shot.”
I rustled up a bottle and poured him a dose.
“I went over and talked to Goshen about Elaine Remington’s rape. Just nosing around.”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing,” I said. That was a lie. It happens sometimes.
“The DA no longer considers you a suspect in the Gibbons thing,” Masters said.
“I know. It helps to have evidence.”
“Some things just need to play out, Kelly. You know how that goes.”
An image of Gerald O’Leary came before my mind and I nodded.
“No hard feelings?” the detective said.
I shrugged.
“Good. Let’s talk about Mulberry,” Masters said.
I raised an eyebrow and hid the rest of my face behind a doughnut.
“Look, Kelly, I know you talked to the landlady. I have a feeling you might have even found her body. So let’s talk.”
“Mulberry’s dead?”
Masters shifted in his seat, took a deep breath in, then out. He was fishing and we both knew it.
“Yeah, she’s dead. Whoever killed her tore the place up pretty good. We figure robbery. If you figure otherwise, now would be a good time.”
The detective sat back, sipped at his Jameson, and waited. I took a minute I didn’t really need. Then I spoke.
“I think Gibbons gave her something or left something behind in his room. Whatever it was, it got them both killed.”
“Let me guess,” Masters sai
d. “You also think it has something to do with the Remington thing?”
“I do.”
“The one you went to the evidence warehouse on.”
“It’s a theory.”
“Why?”
“Gibbons worked that case as a patrolman,” I said. “Remington tracked him down and asked for his help in clearing it. Then he got himself dead.”
“That’s it?”
“So far.”
Masters looked at me like he’d rather not. He siphoned off the last of his whiskey and stood up.
“I’m going down to the autopsy. You want to come along?”
“No thanks.”
“What are you going to do?”
I plucked a volume of Cicero off the corner of the kitchen table and held it up in the morning light.
“Read,” I said. Masters took a look at the title, shook his head, and left.
I let Cicero drop back onto the table and pulled up an old homicide file I had stashed by my feet. The El rumbled nearby, a horn honked, and a hint of thunder echoed in the distance. I didn’t notice. Instead, I turned the pages and read.
CHAPTER 25
The package had arrived via FedEx just before Masters did. I knew Mulberry wasn’t what you’d call generous by nature. If she’d sprung for special delivery, it was probably worth a look. And not with a Chicago cop looking over my shoulder.
The landlady didn’t include a note or any explanation. Just an old police file. Back in the day it would have been called a street file. Chicago cops were famous for them. A duplicate copy of everything in the official file, and a few things maybe the defense didn’t really need to know about.
Got a print that doesn’t make sense? Open up a street file.
Blood work you don’t want to see in court? Throw it in the file.
A potential witness that’s going to mess up your case? Bury him in the street file.
Keeps things moving along once you get to trial. Of course, it’s illegal, immoral, and causes innocent men to go to jail. But hey, in the big city, that’s just the way it goes sometimes.
This one consisted of ten pages of material: pink carbon copies, typed undoubtedly on one of the Selectrics I saw at Town Hall. Elaine Remington’s name was on the first page, an incident report filled out by none other than Patrol Officer John Gibbons. The rest didn’t seem like much. A report from the medic who worked on Elaine at the scene, the ER nurse, and a follow-up from a second cop, cosigned by Gibbons’ commanding officer, Dave Belmont.
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