by Meg Lelvis
Surprised, Jack said, “Oh.” No law against not drinking. “I’ll have a Guinness.”
After talking about the weather and traffic, Molly asked, “Can you tell me anything more about the case?”
Jack gazed at her, taking in her jade green eyes and creamy skin. “It’s against regulations to talk about an ongoing investigation.” He took a gulp of water. “But I could go out on a limb since you’re not a suspect or a relative of one.”
She gave a Mona Lisa smile. “Well, you know in my job as a paralegal, confidentiality is key. Plus, as a good Catholic girl, or former one, I wouldn’t break a confidence.”
The waiter brought their drinks and asked if they’d like to order something to eat. Jack shook his head. “Maybe later.”
Molly stirred her rosy cocktail with a swizzle stick and held up her glass. “Here’s to confidentiality.”
Jack clinked his glass with hers. “Always.”
She eased the maraschino cherry off the stick with her teeth, chewed sensuously and swallowed. God, the chemistry was palpable. He could take her right here on the damn table. Did she feel the same?
“Decided on dinner yet?” The waiter again. What a pest.
“I’ll let you know.” Jack gritted his teeth as the guy walked off.
Molly laughed. “I could eat something. How ‘bout you?”
“Sure.” Jack handed her a menu and opened his. Maybe this evening would work out after all.
Chapter 21
An hour later they’d finished dinner and debated ordering dessert.
“Their cheesecake is delicious, Jack, but I’m pretty full. How about coffee?”
“Works for me.” He signaled the waiter, who ambled over and took their orders.
Molly straightened her scarf. “I don’t want to pry, but how are you doing these days? I’d heard about what happened with your family in Ireland all those years ago. I hope you’ve—”
“Yeah, it’s been twelve years now.” Jack flinched. “I’ll never get over it, but time helps cover the black hole.” He wasn’t used to speaking about his wife and child to anyone except family when they mentioned the subject. Molly seemed empathetic and he was comfortable with her concern.
“I suppose it helped you to move to Texas for a few years, but your mom must’ve missed you.”
The waiter brought their coffee and two chocolate mints. “Thanks.” Molly unwrapped her candy, held it to her nose, and breathed in its savory flavor.
“Yeah, Ma wanted me back here, and I got sick of the heat.” Jack gulped his coffee. “After six years, I was ready to face the reminders again, thanks to a good shrink.” He surprised himself at his candor, so unlike his usual closed-door policy.
“That’s good, Jack. I’m all for therapy. God knows, I’ve had plenty myself.”
“Oh? You seem pretty together to me, but— “
Molly laughed. “Thanks, but you don’t know the real me. Before and after my divorce I got counseling, but some things aren’t meant to be. Not to mention my weekly trips to AA.”
“I see.” Jack wished for a shot of Jameson to pour in his coffee. “Well, we’re quite a pair, ain’t we?”
“For sure.” She sipped her coffee. “Had a relapse when I heard about Aunt Anne. I recall offering you a drink. I keep the wine on hand for friends, but I’m back on the wagon now.”
Molly talked about her two children, a daughter in college, son a high school senior, and the divorce five years ago. She dated off and on, but nothing serious.
“I like to keep things casual,” she said. “Not sure about ever marrying again.”
Jack was relieved to hear that. “Yeah. I haven’t been out much. Not interested. Sorry, no offense, I just meant— “
“It’s okay. I know what you mean.” Molly drained her cup and glanced at her watch. “About that time.”
“Yeah, past my bedtime.” He signaled the waiter, who arrived with the tab. Jack took out his wallet, extracted several bills, and handed them to the guy.
Molly wriggled out of the booth. “Thank you, Jack. Next time it’ll be my treat.”
“I’ll remember that.” Jack hoped there would be a next time. So she’s divorced, has baggage with two kids, is an alcoholic. Hell, nobody’s perfect.
. . . . .
The next morning when Jack arrived at his desk, he spotted the note by his phone. He unfolded it and read See Me, signed by Chub Nesbitt. True to her word, that bitch LePere reported him to the captain.
On his way out of the bull pen, Jack ran into Sherk. “Gonna see the cap,” Jack said. “If I don’t return in half an hour, send backup.”
Sherk chortled. “He’ll go easy on you, Jack.”
“Not worried about Chub. It’s what I might do to LePere.”
Jack walked down the hall and rapped on Captain Nesbitt’s door.
“Yeah,” came a gravely voice, and Jack stepped inside. Nesbitt sat at his huge desk in front of a row of windows. The office was vast, painted bright yellow, shelves neatly arranged with manuals, books, and pottery pieces. Several framed certificates and commendations punctuated the walls, along with pictures of snow-capped mountains and castles Nesbitt photographed on an Austrian trip a couple years ago.
His dark square face broke into a grin. “Jack. Good to see you. How’s Tommy doing these days?”
“Good. Just saw him at Shinnick’s couple nights ago.”
Nesbitt wiped his shiny brow with his hand. He wore an expensive looking gray suit and red tie. His smile faded. “Look, Jack, I’m getting more complaints from LePere. You and I talked about this last year.” He sighed. “I know she’s a pain in the ass, but you gotta try harder to get along. Quit pushing her buttons.”
“I know, Cap. No excuses here.”
“You doin’ okay, you know, personally? Life in general? And don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
“Never could kid you.” Jack half smiled. “I dunno. Maybe things are slipping.” God, he hated conversations like this.
“Well, if that’s the case, you know what to do. Get help. You did it before. I gotta run a smooth ship here, and I’m gettin’ the squeeze from the brass about the nun’s case. Not supposed to happen in Bridgeport.” Nesbitt took a gulp from his large mug. “You know as well as I do, this is still a small town even though most won’t admit it. Certain people run the place, not as bad as Daley’s time, but that small town mentality’s here to stay.”
Jack nodded. “I know, Cap. I’ll handle it. Try with LePere. Keep my mouth shut.”
“Yes, Jack.” Nesbitt stood. “Always said, you can be an ass, but you’re a damn good cop. Now get the hell outta here and close that case.”
Jack got up from his chair. “Thanks, Cap.” He opened the door and walked out.
Resisting the temptation to burst into LePere’s office to tell her off, Jack stomped to his desk. He needed to get his shit together and focus on the frickin’ case.
. . . . .
Thirty minutes later, Jack and Sherk made their way to the parking lot for their drive to interview Len Abbott, a former student of Sister Anne’s. The guy lived in West Lawn, southwest of Bridgeport, and worked at a nearby software company.
The sun chased dark gray clouds away, along with predictions of rain. Sherk looked at the sky. “April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs from— “
“Enough of the Shakespeare, too— “
“T. S. Eliot, Jack. From The Waste Land. It’s often misquoted— “
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack grumbled. He should let Sherk wax poetic, but he wasn’t in the mood.
They climbed into an unmarked and rode along Thirty-first Street toward I-55. Jack told his partner about meeting with Nesbitt. Sherk didn’t comment. Was he thinking about Erica’s first chemo tomorrow? Why did good people get cancer? Wonder how many pedophiles get it. Poor Sherk. Guess it’s human nature to imagine the worst case scenario when faced with a cancer diagnosis. Primarily when the odds might be against recovery, but what did Jack know?
Five minutes from Abbott’s workplace, dispatch called, the operator’s voice filling the car. “Body of a white male at 1297 Kedvale Drive, Skokie. Outside our precinct, but one of their cops knows about the Bible thumper. Figures it’s yours, Bailey. Bible verse with the body.”
“Yer shittin’ me, man.” Jack pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “Yeah, on our way. Should be there in forty-five, hour tops.”
“My god, three murders,” Sherk said. “An official serial killer on our hands.”
Jack checked the rear view, squealing the brakes as he waited for a van to pass so he could make a U-turn in the middle of Pulaski Road. He sped north until he hit I-55 and exited east. “Think Fifty’ll be okay? Quicker than Ninety if traffic’s light.”
“Should be good this time of day,” Sherk answered. “Then we can catch Ninety-four into Skokie.” He’d already entered the address in the GPS.
Jack put his sunglasses on. “What’s it been? Nine, ten days since Welton?” He felt the walls closing in.
“Eleven days,” Sherk said.
Crap. Nesbitt’ll have my ass for sure. “Gotta get this prick.” He heard the ticking clock.
Chapter 22
They didn’t say much as Jack raced east on the freeway. He caught up close behind a couple semis slowing traffic, their immense frames side by side. Couldn’t see a damn thing, and the asshole in the third lane drove his Chevy sedan like it was Sunday afternoon in the country.
The idiot truck drivers wouldn’t hear Jack honk, so he laid on the horn behind the slowpoke. The guy looked in the rear view, raised his shoulders as if he wondered what Jack wanted.
He beeped again. “Come on, moron, move that heap before I ram your ass.”
“Take it easy, Jack. There’s an exit coming up, you can get on the shoulder.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Didn’t need a back seat driver. Wished he worked alone at times like this.
The straggler accelerated until he was a car length in front of the truck, but by that time Jack took the right exit lane until he passed the guy, leaving him and the trucks in the dust.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re stopped for speeding.” Sherk cleared his throat. “Want to run the siren?”
“Nah, just quit your nagging.”
Like most detectives, Jack avoided flashing lights and sirens unless it was a chase or crime in progress. Public safety was first priority, but compromised by high speeds.
“Am curious as hell about this vic,” Jack said as he exited north onto Highway 50. “First two couldn’t be more different, an old nun and a young guy. Possible abuse connection though.”
“I have no idea either. Guess we put Sister’s former students’ interviews on hold for now.”
“Too bad we didn’t get to see Abbott. Damn, if dispatch called twenty minutes later we would’ve made the interview. Need to postpone.”
When they reached the interchange with I-90 toward Park Ridge, Jack felt a tug in his gut at the familiar highway close to Karen’s parents’ home. They continued past signs for Cicero and several miles later, Oak Park.
“Did you know Hemingway was born in Oak Park?” Sherk gazed out the window at the drab gray square warehouses and unadorned office buildings.
“Of course I knew that. Grew up here, remember? You’re not the only cultured guy around.” Jack slowed down for yellow construction signs. “Tony Accardo hung out here too.”
“In Oak Park?” Sherk asked.
“No, in Sicily.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, Jack.”
“Says you.” Gunning the engine after the lanes cleared, they reached Skokie Boulevard ten minutes later. Jack slowed down through residential neighborhoods reflecting an older middle class area. Small brick houses, mostly one story ranches, sat back from green ash-shaded streets. Several lawns needed landscaping, but a decent neighborhood.
“We’re there,” Sherk said as Jack turned right, following GPS directions.
Turning onto Kedvale, he spotted a cruiser and parked behind it.
They climbed out of the car and headed toward a postage stamp-sized one story tan house with black trim. The yard displayed no decorative touches; two oak trees stood on either side of the walkway. Low bushes in various stages of deterioration flanked a small concrete porch.
The front door opened before Jack rang the bell, and a young Latino patrol cop greeted them. “You must be Bailey.” The guy held out his hand. “Toby Perez here.”
Jack gave a half nod. “My partner, Karl Sherkenbach. Fill us in.”
Perez led the men through a small living room with dingy light green furniture into a short hallway with three closed doors. He opened the last door. “Better hold your noses.”
The room stunk like an outhouse. Jack breathed through his mouth “Shit, how long has he been here?”
“Dunno,” said Perez. “Maybe he had the runs before he croaked.”
Jack grunted. “Yeah, these murder scenes, always a crapshoot.”
Sherk groaned. The three men stood beside a double bed and gazed down at the body of a pudgy middle-aged man lying on his back. A fringe of graying brown hair circled a shiny head. He wore a drab gray sweatshirt with a Cubs logo and loose gray sweatpants, feet bare. Brown mottled stains seeped through the pants onto the tan bedspread. Jack had seen worse. Not sure about the smell.
“Don’t know details yet,” Perez said. “A friend called 911 when he couldn’t get in the house. The vic was supposed to meet a few buddies for breakfast at Perkins, but didn’t show. The friend said the vic was always on time, and when he didn’t answer their phone calls, the friend came over.”
“Did he try and enter the house?” Sherk asked.
“No, but he heard the dog barking from inside, so he called the cops.”
“Where’s the friend now?” Jack bent down to examine the body’s face and neck.
“He’s waiting in his car with the cop who came with me. He’ll stick around to answer your questions. The dog’s at the next door neighbor’s.”
“What details on the deceased do you have thus far?” Sherk’s typical lofty vocabulary.
Perez flipped his notebook open. “Name’s Grant Adams, retired, around sixty. Been divorced for years, wife lives in Rockford.”
Jack ambled to the other side of the bed. “Where’s the Bible verse?”
Perez hesitated. “It’s with my buddy in the car. Put it in an evidence bag.” He noted Jack’s sour expression. “Oh, don’t worry, he used gloves.”
Sherk spoke softly. “It shouldn’t have been moved.”
Jack shook his head. “Gotta lot to learn, Perez. Show me where it was without touching anything.”
Perez leaned over the body and lowered his index finger to the edge of the body’s right wrist. Same place as the other two vics.
“Okay,” Jack said. “The ME on the way?”
“Any minute now.” Perez coughed. “Should I go get the friend in here now?”
“Yes, thank you,” Sherk answered. “We’ll wait in the kitchen.”
Perez left the bedroom, and after glancing at the corpse and surrounding area, Jack led the way through the dim hallway into a worn-o
ut looking dining and kitchen space. They sat at a small blond laminate table straight out of the 1950’s.
Jack took in the harvest gold refrigerator and oven. “God, do ya think Ozzie and Harriet are gonna come through the door any minute?”
“Ozzie who?”
“Never mind. Just heard the front door.”
Three men walked into the kitchen. Perez said, “Detectives, this is Morty Brown, friend of the deceased. We’ll be outside till you’re done talking.” The other cop held out a plastic bag containing a folded paper.
“Thanks,” Sherk stood. “I’m Detective Sherkenbach, this is my partner, Detective Bailey.” Sherk put the bag in a pocket inside his jacket. “Next time, leave all evidence in place.”
After Perez and the cop left the room, Sherk indicated a chair for Brown.
“Okay,” Brown said as he took a seat. He looked like he was in his late sixties, maybe seventies. His navy windbreaker overlapped a protruding belly. Rubbing his close-cropped white hair, he said, “I’m still in shock. Can’t get over it. Grant was so healthy.”
Not anymore, Jack thought. “How long were you friends with— “he looked at his notes. “Grant Adams?”
Brown rose and walked to the sink. “I need water. You guys?” He opened a cabinet and retrieved a glass.
“No thank you,” Sherk said.
“I’ve known Grant for ah, maybe twenty-five years. Met in the late eighties. Our kids were in Little League, Grant coached. A few of us dads would get together. Then he talked me into coaching— “
“Where did Grant work?” Jack didn’t need a life story, but his brain registered a red flag when Brown mentioned the coaching bit.
“Carver Central High in Des Plaines, lived there till he retired. Taught history and coached baseball. Did Little League too.”
Brown talked for another ten minutes, elevating Grant Adams to sainthood, how highly regarded he was by co-workers, parents, students, and Little League players. Everyone seemed to worship the guy except his wife. She moved to Rockford after the divorce.