by Meg Lelvis
“Let’s see here,” Phil Rhodes said as he pulled a file from a steel cabinet next to the wall.
He sat at his desk; Jack and Sherk remained standing. The guy’s phone buzzed, and he spent the next couple minutes justifying the price of two-inch nails. Jack clamped his jaw. Wished the jerk would hang up already.
When Rhodes finally turned his attention to the file, Jack sighed with relief.
“Bruce Welton. Started two months ago. I don’t know him very well. Seems nice enough. Works the warehouse back there.” Rhodes looked worried. “What’s the problem?”
Jack studied him. “Welton was found dead this morning. Might be foul play.” That was the story for now.
“Oh god,” Rhodes said. “He was so young.” He wiped his forehead.
“Yes he was.” Sherk cleared his throat. “When was he last at work?”
Rhodes thumbed through several papers. “Was scheduled yesterday until five o’clock. You’d have to talk to the department supervisor to see if he was here. His name’s Conrad Jones. He should be around. I’ll give him a call.” Damned if the guy’s phone didn’t buzz again. Jack exhaled loudly.
Rhodes answered. “Lemme call ya back.” He punched in numbers on his cell. “Yeah, Conrad. Got two men who want to talk to ya.” Silence. “Right. Letcha know.”
Rhodes turned to Jack. “He’s in the back unloading. You wanna go there, or meet him here?”
Sherk said, “We’ll go there. Thanks for your help.”
Following Rhodes’s directions, Jack and Sherk made their way to a mammoth warehouse; stacks of boxes of all shapes and sizes rested on shelves and sections of the floor.
“Rhodes doesn’t know the truth about Welton unless he’s a damn good actor.” Jack side-stepped a box of lightbulbs in his path. “Wonder how he got the job.”
“The law on hiring felons is a slippery slope. It depends on state laws which can change. Many variables present themselves, like the severity of— “
“All right, man, I get the point. Calvin can research your slippery slope.”
“Agreed.” Sherk indicated a far wall with sun shining through a large opening. “The loading dock’s over there.”
Several men were lifting, shoving, and carrying boxes from the platform into the warehouse. Jack approached a tall black guy pointing to a washing machine wrapped in packaging material. Two other men eased it from a dolly onto the floor at the end of a ramp.
“We’re looking for Conrad Jones.”
The man beamed, white teeth flashing. “You found him.”
“Can we talk privately?” asked Sherk.
“Go ahead,” he told his co-workers. “Be back in a minute.”
He led Jack and Sherk to a quiet spot in a corner. Sherk pulled out his notebook. “We’re here regarding Bruce Welton.”
Jones told them Welton was a quiet sort, didn’t socialize with others, did an adequate job, was strong for his medium size. He clocked out yesterday at 5:15 P.M. and was scheduled to work today from 8:30 to 5:00, but didn’t show. Jack felt certain Jones didn’t know Welton’s history any more than Rhodes.
“He was a milk-toast kind of guy— you know what I mean?” Jones glanced around. “I take it something happened to him?”
“Found dead in his apartment this morning. Possible foul play.” Jack coughed. “Have to ask, where were you yesterday between five thirty and five this morning?”
Jones looked surprised. “Me? Oh, ah, at home with my wife and kids. Was here till seven, stopped at the Jewel for a few groceries and then home.”
Jack nodded. “Okay, that’s it. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.”
Jones took the card. “Yeah. Too bad, young guy like that. Something off about him, now that I think about it. Can’t put my finger on it though.”
If he only knew, Jack thought as he and Sherk turned to leave.
Back in the car, Jack started the engine. “I wanna stop by the morgue and bust Araki’s balls on the autopsy. We’ll get lunch later. He might be cutting Welton open even as we speak.”
“That image whets my appetite.” Sherk, a man of dry wit.
“How many autopsies have you witnessed?” Jack backed out of the parking space and traveled toward I-55.
“Two. As you know, I have a habit of becoming unavailable as an attending detective for the occasional equivocal case we encounter.”
Jack harrumphed. “Yeah, noticed that. Not my favorite part of the job, but thank god the department isn’t hardass about a detective witnessing every one.”
“I wonder how many Miss Daisy has seen.”
“None I’m guessing. I’m sure the bitch is lying in wait for us. We should stay away as long as possible. Maybe a long lunch at the pub.”
“Sounds good. Let’s eat first, Jack. We’ll call Dr. Araki when we’re done.”
“Okay. I’m hungry. Shinnick’s?”
“Fine with me.”
Traffic was light, and they reached the pub in twenty-five minutes. Jack parked on Union Street down from Nativity of Our Lord Church. The lunch crowd was thinning out, and Jack chose a booth near a large window.
Shinnick’s, a Bridgeport icon established in the 1880’s, was once frequented by both Mayor Daleys. Original tin walls and ceiling still remained, with huge white columns and ornate molding showcasing the interior. The Shinnick family still owns the pub, once a haven for politicians whose photographs decorate the walls, guarding secrets of Chicago public servants, not all of whom were entirely scrupulous.
Jack strolled over to the traditional Brunswick bar and ordered two pints of Guinness from a balding, overstuffed bartender. “How’s it going, Charlie?”
“Not bad, Bailey. Your brother was in here yesterday, maybe day before.”
Jack shrugged. “You see Tommy more than I do.”
Charlie filled two tall mugs and handed them to Jack. “Say hi to Sherk for me.”
“Will do. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”
“Ha. What century are you from, Bailey?”
“Can’t get my gramps outta my head.” Jack carried the beers to the booth, where he and Sherk raised a toast to whoever snuffed out Bruce Welton.
After their lunch of thick cheeseburgers, fries, and cole slaw, Jack paid the tab; the men waved goodbye to Charlie and ambled to the car.
Jack climbed into the driver’s seat. “Ate too much. Time for a nap.”
Sherk stretched his long arms. “Yes, great idea. That was indeed a hearty repast.”
“Yeah, filling lunch too.” Jack glanced at Sherk. “Gotcha.”
Jack tapped in Araki’s number on his phone and listened. “Not till then? We’re tied up. I’ll send Gonzalez or Kennedy. Later.” He tapped the phone off. “Damn, Araki’s starting autopsy at three. After that lunch, I changed my mind. Kennedy likes that crap. Let him go.”
“Fine with me. Let’s go to the office, update Kennedy, and check with Calvin.” He flipped his notebook open and rattled off his to-do list.
Jack drove down Pershing to Halsted, and arrived at the station in ten minutes. On the way to their desks, they stopped at Gary Calvin’s desk.
“Got what you needed, boys.” He held up a file in his chubby paw. “Ask and ye shall find.”
“Receive, Gary. Receive,” said Sherk.
Calvin eyed him. “Huh?”
“Ask and ye shall receive. Find is relative to seek and ye shall find.”
Calvin ran his hand through his ginger hair. “You’re killin’ me, Sherk.”
“He gotcha, Calvin.” Jack guffawed
and tramped away.
“You’re welcome, Bailey,” Calvin called.
“I know. I’m the one makes your job interesting,” Jack answered.
Sherk stayed at Calvin’s desk and asked him to research Bruce Welton’s felony status as an employee at Home Depot. “Thanks, Gary, we’ll check later.”
Jack called Kennedy and updated him on the Welton case. The younger detective was eager to leave the office and attend the autopsy.
Sherk sat across from Jack at their adjoining desks. “Here’s the file. Enlighten me.”
Highlighter in hand, Sherk took the papers and skimmed several pages before summarizing the contents for Jack.
Nothing earth-shaking, except Welton’s grandmother, Louise, was in Florida, where she wintered every year with her sister in West Palm Beach. She told Welton she expected to return to Chicago the end of March, next week. She’d been gone since November, but signed papers for her grandson to live in her house. Welton moved in on January 30. A cousin had checked on the house twice a week the previous two months. Calvin obtained this information from Louise Welton’s realtor.
“Okay, so the scum had the place to himself,” Jack said. “Who knows what shit happened in that house. We need to call the old lady. Did she truly know her own grandson? And what does that make her?”
They’d soon find out.
Chapter 10
It was a toss-up who would call Louise Welton to inform her of the death of her grandson, who she may or may not be aware was a registered sex offender; specifically, a pedophile. Jack reached for his pocket and fished out a quarter. He tossed the coin in the air and covered it with his hand.
“Call it, Sherk.”
“Tails.”
Jack lifted his hand. “Two outta three.”
“Afraid not, Jack. Let me know what you find out. I’m going for coffee.”
Jack moaned and tapped in Louise Welton’s number.
Oddly, she didn’t seem shocked or upset at hearing about the untimely demise of her grandson.
“I always wondered about that boy. Something strange about him. Too quiet.” Louise’s voice crackled and she coughed frequently. A smoker? “Always wondered if he was on drugs. His brother got hooked on cocaine or heroin, can’t recollect exactly, but it was bad.”
“Did you worry about him staying at your house?”
Louise hesitated. “Not really. My son Paul, who’s Bruce’s uncle, told me he’d check on the boy every now and again. He’s the one, got Bruce the job at Home Depot. My Paul’s some kind of supervisor or something at the store in Naperville. Then there’s my other grandson, Bruce’s cousin. He checked on the house before Bruce moved in.”
“I see.” Nothing more to glean from this conversation. “That’s all for now. I assume you’ll notify your family.”
“Oh yes. Bruce’s mom, who knows where she is. Left years ago, but his dad in Minneapolis will be upset. Just know he will.”
Jack thanked the woman for her time and hung up. Guess Grandma was in the dark about her grandson. Perhaps a good thing.
Welton’s uncle must’ve known the score. Helped his nephew out by somehow getting him in at Home Depot, keeping the sex offender part under the radar. Depending how the case progressed, Jack might end up tracking down the uncle. He’d worry about that later.
Velda Vatava’s sudden appearance interrupted Jack’s thoughts. “Almost time for happy hour, Bailey. Where’s your flask?”
He looked up and spoke in a sing-song cadence. “Velda Veronica Vatava, vhat a vonderfully strange-sounding name.”
“Hey, that’s Sherk’s poem. He still hasn’t finished it.” Velda’s burgundy colored pants suit with a loose-fitting long jacket accentuated her stout figure. Her black flat shoes didn’t help the image.
Jack eyed the thick file folder in her stubby hands. “Got something for me? Tickets to the Blackhawk’s game?”
“Ha, you crack me up, Bailey.” She handed him the file. “A gift from your pal Ms. LePere. Pertinent information on updates of various and sundry penal codes which all cops should memorize. Read it and weep.”
Jack groaned. “Be sure and tell her—never mind, you don’t use that kind of language.”
Velda laughed. “Try me sometime, Bailey. Try me.” She turned and swerved to miss bumping head-on into Sherk.
She grasped his arm to steady herself. “Hey, guy. Just quoting your poetry.” Velda cackled and marched on to somewhere important.
“Should I ask?” Sherk sat at his desk and faced Jack.
“Nah. She just dumped a pile of red tape bullshit on us to peruse and file away.”
“What did Bruce Welton’s grandmother have to say?”
Jack relayed his conversation with Grandmother Louise while Sherk drank his coffee.
“Nothing further to do, Jack. In all probability the woman doesn’t know the truth about her grandson. Too late in the day to question the parents of the boy Welton abused.”
Jack ran his hand through his once black hair, now flecked with gray. “Yeah, I’m heading out. Calvin should have a report tomorrow about Welton’s prison record and how his uncle finagled the Home Depot job.”
Sherk drained his mug. “Calling it a day. Past five o’clock. Time to relax.”
As luck would have it, Daisy LePere approached the minute Jack rose from his chair. Her bleached hair was pulled back into a bun at her neck, not a strand out of place. Gold hoop earrings dangled in the breeze. “Going somewhere, Detectives?”
Jack held up his arm, looked at his watch. “Yeah, Sarge, we’ve put in a full day. Happy hour time.”
“Ms. LePere to you, Bailey. What’s the latest on the Welton case?”
Sherk said, “We don’t have cause of death. Welton was a registered sex offender, lived—”
“I know that much, Sherkenbach.” She gave him a withering glance and turned to Jack. “Anything new?”
“We’ll get on Araki’s ass tomorrow for the autopsy. Forensics should have something by noon. We’ll question further connections to Welton tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong with now?” LePere sighed. “Never mind. I’ll expect a progressive report tomorrow afternoon. Do your job, fellas.” She turned and traipsed toward Gary Calvin’s desk and spoke to him.
“There she goes, busting Calvin’s balls, poor guy,” Jack said.
“Let’s get out of here before she thinks of something else to encumber us with.” Sherk gathered his phone and briefcase.
He and Jack made it to the cloak room, retrieved their jackets, headed down the hall, and left the building.
Jack breathed in the frosty air, a relief after the oppressive mood in the station. He said good night to Sherk, climbed into his old Beemer and headed home. His fridge needed replenishing, but he couldn’t face the extra effort to stop at the mom and pop corner store on the way. His thoughts meandered back in time as he steered along the streets of his youth. Dusk cast shadows on the landscape as an image lurked on the edge of his mind. A date he wanted to forget loomed ahead in less than a week.
When he unlocked the back door, Boone trotted up to Jack and yipped a greeting. The days of the big dog going into a frenzy at Jack’s arrivals were long gone.
“Hey, boy. Ready for a walk?”
Boone barked twice in response as Jack fastened a collar and leash around the thick, furry neck. The huge mutt loved his walks, although he no longer pranced or tugged at the leash as he’d done in his younger years.
Jack enjoyed walking Boone in weather like this, pleasantly cool, unlike the bitter cold of previous months. Cleared his mind to think.
Lately, Jack felt time slipping away, his world moving too fast. Not that life overflowed with excitement or activity, but memories of better times grew increasingly distant. He dreaded the phone call he knew would soon come from his mother. She’d remind him of the date next Saturday, March 28. As if he could forget.
. . . . .
After scarfing down a gourmet dinner of frozen pizza with two bottles of Guinness, Jack reclined in his favorite brown leather chair. As if on cue, the expected phone call arrived. He glanced at the caller ID. Maureen Bailey.
“Yeah, Ma. What a surprise.”
“Don’t get smart, Jacky. You know why I’m calling.”
He knew, all right. Five days from now would be the anniversary of his late wife, Karen’s birthday. Twelve years later, the day was no easier to endure, mainly with Karen’s mother, Beth, reminding him each year of their annual gathering at the gravesite, which included the grave of his daughter, Elizabeth. Age five, and robbed of her life along with her mother on a trip to Ireland. Would the pain ever end?
“Okay, just the facts, Ma’am.” He couldn’t hack hearing every detail of his mother’s conversation with Beth, who had rubbed the Bailey family the wrong way from the get-go.
“Of course, you know this Saturday is Karen’s fiftieth birthday, and— “
“For god’s sake, Ma, Karen happens to be deceased. It’s not gonna be her birthday. It would have been. Just tell me what the old queen bee wants.”
“Don’t take your foul mood out on me, young man. I’m just the messenger. Next time I’ll tell her to call you. See how you like talking to her.”
“All right, all right.”
“We’re gonna meet at the cemetery at one o’clock and lay flowers. Then we’re invited to their house for coffee and dessert. Think you can manage that?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
“Christ, I don’t wanna deal with them at their house. Bad enough being around them at the cemetery. Tell her I can’t make it. I got a department meeting at two o’clock.”