by Meg Lelvis
“Calls for another beer,” Jack said to Boone, who looked up, sleepy-eyed and wagged his long yellow tail.
Returning to his chair with another Guinness, he noticed the same guy on TV yakking and turned the damn thing off. He thought about Molly, her green eyes, lavender scent, perfect butt. Maybe he’d muster up the ambition to call her. Then again—
. . . . .
The next morning, rain spattered Jack’s windshield as he drove to the station. A biting north wind scattered leaves over lawns and sidewalks and bent branches of young trees. He could hear his mother recite The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow. What will the robin do then, poor thing? She chanted the entire poem whenever the wind blew. Is this part of the aging process? His mother’s words infringing on his thoughts.
He spotted Chub Nesbitt’s car turning into the parking lot, and circled around the block to avoid him. Didn’t feel like facing the music yet. Needed coffee first.
When Jack entered the bull pen, the place was half empty. Gary Calvin stood at his desk. “Hey, Bailey, check out my new shirt.”
Jack groaned. “If I have to, but you owe me.” He didn’t mention he needed to talk to the guy anyway as he approached the desk.
Calvin resembled Bozo, with his unkempt carrot mop and toothy grin. He stuck his chest out like a peacock. “Gotta admit, this shirt was custom made just for me.”
Jack gazed at the rusty colored shirt with white print. He read aloud to humor Calvin. “So if a redhead goes crazy, is it called ginger snaps?”
“Not bad, eh, Bailey?” The geek seemed more keyed up than usual.
“A real knee-slapper. You can sit now. Got some work for ya.” Jack pulled up a nearby chair and flopped down beside Calvin.
“One step ahead of you. The whole place is buzzing about the Bridgeport serial killer.” Calvin turned to his monitor and began typing.
Jack looked around. “Stop exaggerating. No buzzing. Didn’t make the evening papers. Haven’t checked this morning.”
“Don’t bother. Made the front page of the Leader and third in the Tribune.” Calvin slid to one side of the screen. “Here, take a look.”
Jack leaned in and squinted. “They do things different in the Skokie press. Hate to see my name in print. Why did those idiots need to quote me and that Vito wannabe of a sergeant of theirs? Damn, now every freak’ll be calling here.”
Calvin guffawed. “Calm down, Bailey. No one would dare bother you. Now let’s see. Got some stuff on the vic. Grant Adams, age sixty, taught history at Carver—you know all that. I dug up some comments, not allegations, just rumors about the guy.” He continued to move and press the mouse to find a link.
“Good,” Jack said. “What I wanted.”
Calvin pointed to a short article on the screen. “Here. I’ll print it for ya, but it raises the ugly head of doubt or whatever about this character.” He punched the printer button and handed the copy to Jack.
“Keep lookin’, see what else you come up with.” Jack stood.
“What else? This ain’t chopped liver.” Calvin brushed his floppy mane from his forehead. “Some people have no gratitude.” He laughed at his own comment as if it were hilarious.
“Check ya later.” Jack turned and walked toward his desk. A couple cops sidetracked him with questions about the Skokie murder. Getting plenty of unwanted attention on this one. He reached for his mug and headed toward the break room, where he was bombarded with more interrogations.
“Okay, okay, guys, I ain’t a damn celebrity, keep ya posted.” Jack poured his coffee and looked at a young patrol cop. “All I’m missing is a bald head and a lollipop.”
“Huh? Whadda ya mean?” the brat asked. Several guys cackled.
“Ask your mother.” Jack waved them off and left the room.
He hoped no one would bother him as he took a seat at his desk and began reading the printouts from Calvin. The geek had done his job. Nothing noteworthy popped up on Grant Adams’s phone records, finances seemed to be in order, normal portfolio for someone his age, still owed a few grand on his mortgage, unremarkable credit card debt. Looked like Mr. Average all American retired geezer.
Gulping his coffee, Jack came across a short hit from an obscure source that piqued his interest. “Hmm,” he said aloud. “What have we here?”
Chapter 25
Before he read ten words, Jack smelled the sickly odor of roses and knew he was in for an assault from the queen bitch.
“Where’s Sherkenbach?” LePere sidled up to his desk, hands on hips.
“Good morning, Sarge.” Jack faked a smile. “How are you today?”
“Knock it off, Bailey. Where is he?” She glanced at her shiny gold watch. “It’s mid morning.”
Jack shrugged. “Sorry. Can’t help ya. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a case to work on.”
LePere stiffened and put her hand on a bare space on the desk. She clicked her red manicured claws on the wooden veneer as several gold bangles slid down her wrist. Jack could feel her nails indenting his skin. “Bailey, the captain assured me you would turn over a new attitude. Haven’t seen it so far.”
Before Jack could utter a response, she turned and pranced toward the door, silk pants swishing in the air.
He tightened his jaw and returned to his paper. Where was he? Oh yeah, a blurb titled Allegations Against Coach Unfounded dated September 9, 2007. According to the piece, several parents claimed Grant Adams, a Little League coach in Des Plaines, possessed child pornography in August, 1992. Authorities were notified, but could find no evidence to support the accusations.
Jack drained his cup. The article was good enough for him. No need for further investigation, same killer, the connection obvious. God, like that Sandusky bastard. What the fuck’s with these old geezers? Hell, anyone. No answer, never was, never will be.
Nothing much to do until Sherk came back from his wife’s chemo treatment. Pushing his chair back, Jack moseyed his way to the break room for coffee. He’d call Skokie PD, see about autopsy and lab results. Then revisit the list of Sister Anne’s former students. He and Sherk could drive back to see Len Abbott in West Lawn if they had time. If not, wait till Monday.
When noon rolled around, Jack’s stomach rumbled in protest. Antsy to leave his mound of paperwork for fresh air, he decided to grab takeout at Jackalope across the street, and eat in solitude at his desk. A swig of Jameson from his desk drawer would enhance his dining experience.
When Jack stepped outside the front entrance of the station, the wind’s sharp teeth nipped at his face. The earlier rain had faded into an Irish mist, an unofficial weather term used by his mother. Ducking his head, he hurried across Halsted to the psychedelic colored windows of the coffee shop and peeked in the door. He spotted Nesbitt’s bulky frame sitting across the room with another sizeable older man. Jack jerked around and hurried away before the captain turned. Didn’t want to face explaining a third murder to the cap at lunch time.
“Hell, can’t even grab a burger,” Jack groused to himself. He headed down the block to Willy’s, a greasy spoon that featured thick burgers, ordered one with fries, and returned to the station.
He devoured the burger and fries, educated with a couple splashes of Jameson he added to his leftover coffee.
Velda Vatava stopped by. “Umm, smelled your lunch, Bailey. Any more to share with your favorite colleague?”
“He’s not here yet, Velda.” Jack bunched up his napkin. “Sure was good though.”
Velda peered into his mug and sniffed. “Yeah, and your coffee must be the perfect addition to your lunch.”
“You know me too well, Vatava. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got a case t
o work.”
“A real serial killer so I hear. Way to go, Bailey.” She laughed and walked away.
Jack glowered and pretended to study his computer screen.
Ten minutes later Sherk plodded his way to his desk and sat down.
Jack looked up. “Rough time?”
Sliding his glasses off his nose, Sherk sighed. “Yeah. Never been around hospitals much. Or people with life-threatening illness. Erica’s resting at home now. Feels fine. Doc says the first round of chemo usually doesn’t produce side effects. It’s a cumulative process.”
“Should’ve stayed home, dude. Not much to do that can’t wait till Monday.” Jack drained the last of his drink.
“No, I need the distraction that work offers. Did anyone miss me this morning?”
“Yeah, the ol’ bag asked. Said I couldn’t help. At least Cap didn’t call me in. Saw him in Jackalope before he saw me. Got the hell out and went to Willy’s for lunch.”
Sherk held his glasses up and polished them with his usual micro cloth. “Anything more on our Skokie victim?”
Jack relayed Gary Calvin’s information. They’d wait for the autopsy and lab reports from Skokie to verify the forensic evidence matched the previous two victims. “Still have a hunch the key is Sister Anne. Hoping to luck out with one of the five students on our list. Revisit that Len Abbott guy we missed seeing yesterday.”
Sherk glanced at his watch. “Think there’s still time this afternoon?”
“Nah, too much traffic. He’d be getting off work. Let’s wait till Monday.” Knew they should work the case now, but Jack felt the walls closing in. Ready to get the hell out.
Sherk clicked his ballpoint pen back and forth. “You know our trip to Germany Erica and I planned for this summer? Got our flight reservations already. We’ll ask the doc, but I don’t see how she can make it now that— “
Jack raised his eyebrows. “You never know. She could feel better by then. In remission.”
“Highly doubtful she’d be to that point in less than three months. We’re booked at the end of June. That way the kids are out of school. Stay with their grandparents.”
Jack wished he could think of profound, intelligent words to say, but nothing came to him. “Something’ll work out, Sherk. Maybe a relative can take the tickets.”
“In the meantime, ‘hope is the thing with feathers’— “
“Gonna go out on a limb here, but that doesn’t sound like Shakespeare to me.”
Sherk smiled. “Emily Dickinson. Would you like to hear the entire poem?”
“No offense, but I have an appointment.” Jack stood and stuffed papers into a folder. “Some other time.”
“Leaving for the day, Jack? Have a good weekend.”
“You too. Don’t stay too long. Best to Erica.” He turned and hurried out of the bull pen and exited the building, hoping to avoid Nesbitt.
. . . . .
Two hours later, Jack dropped onto his sofa. He thought about the coach’s murder. A serial killer in Bridgeport? Gotta get on it. When the phone buzzed, he read the caller ID, debated not answering, then gave in. “Yeah, Ma. What’s up?”
“Nothing is up, Jacky. Can’t a mother call her son once in awhile to see if he’s still amongst the living?”
“Ma, it’s been a long week. Not in the mood for a guilt trip.”
“All right, all right. Just wondering if you’ve gone through that box of your father’s.” Did her voice seem shriller than usual?
Jack shifted in the chair. “Yeah, went through it. Not much I want. I’ll drop it off so the rest can look through it. The grandkids might like the newspapers and other stuff. Historical interest, and all that.” A painful reminder he had no children to inherit anything.
“Okay. I think Jenny’s waiting to look at it, so when can you bring it over?”
Jack sighed. He doubted his sister cared about the box, but Andy, his brother in Arlington Heights, might be interested. He wondered again if his mother knew about the letter from the mystery German woman. “I dunno, Ma. Maybe this weekend if you’re in that big a hurry.”
He could visualize his mother rolling her eyes, smoothing her henna curls. “Well, pardon me, Jacky. You’d think I lived a hundred miles from you. You’re all of seven minutes away from your poor old mither.”
“Ha, your Irish is showing Ma. You’re not poor. You’re not old. No violins tonight. I’ll try and come by this weekend. Maybe during Mass.”
“Not funny. Wouldn’t kill you to start going again. Just last week Father— “
“Ma, I gotta go. See ya soon.” He hung up.
After polishing off his beer, he reached for the remote. Needed to distract himself from thoughts of Stewart Buckley. Why did he arrange tomorrow’s meeting? Why the privacy? He dreaded passing through the doors of the Park Ridge Country Club. Memories of happier times with Karen and Elizabeth swimming, dining.
Should he call Molly? It might work out. Then again, easier to stream a movie.
Chapter 26
Jack tossed and turned throughout the night, dreaming of blinding eruptions, raging orange colors, Sherk dashing through a forest, Karen driving down a street. As dawn crept through the window shades, he untangled his legs from bunched-up sheets and staggered into the bathroom. He turned on the cold water, splashed his face. Bleary eyes gazed in the mirror. Two black pools sunken into a lopsided head stared back at him. Thoughts of doom hid in the recess of his mind.
Several hours later, he drove north on I-90 headed for Park Ridge. Clouds rolled over a gray sky, no rain yet. Wondering what to wear, Jack decided on a white polo shirt and khakis. Figured he’d blend in with the geezers having lunch after their nine o’clock tee time.
He turned onto Highway 43 heading northwest until North Prospect took him to the country club’s entrance. Stopping at the red brick guard gate, Jack identified himself to the chubby uniformed guy who leaned out the window. “Yes, Mr. Bailey, go right ahead. Enjoy your lunch with Mr. Buckley.”
Money talks, Jack thought, and continued along the winding pavement lined with ash trees and lush hedges. Purple and white crocus dotted the lawns as the clubhouse came into view. The imposing red brick structure displayed squared white pillars and arched window trim and soffits. Black wrought iron benches and manicured shrubs surrounded the atrium.
Thinking he should replace his old Beemer one of these years, he handed his keys to the valet guy. Jack ascended the stairs and was greeted at the door by a skinny balding man. Jack was surprised the club still employed a doorman, but what did he know. Seemed archaic. He hadn’t been here since the nineties with Karen.
Stewart Buckley was sitting in a tweed easy chair in the lobby. He stood and strode to the entrance. “Jack, good to see you.” He held out his hand, his John Kennedy smile showcasing polished teeth.
“Hey, Stu.” Jack shook the man’s hand, taking in his pale blue dress shirt and gray trousers. Doubtful he played eighteen holes this morning.
“Let’s have lunch and then we can talk,” Buckley said as he led the way to the dining room. The maître d’ stood stiffly until he glanced at them. “Yes, Mr. Buckley, right this way.”
What a suck up.
The dining room overlooked green gardens, a small pond, and two adorned fountains. Open, bright and airy with high ceilings, the room featured cream colored tablecloths with chairs upholstered in ivory and brown designs. Most diners were older white men, some seated with women in casual business attire. Several greeted Buckley as he threaded his way across the room. A subtle trace of grilled steak flowed through the air. Naturally, they rated a table for two next to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows di
splaying the view.
A young waiter appeared, menus in hand. He poured their water, and took drink orders. “Jameson okay for you, Jack?” Buckley asked.
“Fine.”
“You may remember the salmon dish. Still serve it with cranberry glaze.” Buckley opened his menu as if he didn’t have the whole thing memorized. “I’m leaning toward a steak myself.”
Jack wished he were anywhere but here. Why didn’t he suggest another place?
“I’m not that hungry.” God, he sounded like a wuss. He looked at the lunch options.
Stewart asked, “You’re feeling all right, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, fine. I agree. The salmon looks good.” A couple glasses of pinot grigio would sweeten the pot.
“Great. You know they make an excellent Lake Superior whitefish too.”
Jack spotted the entree on the menu. What is Milanese style? Like reading a foreign language trying to decipher all the ingredients surrounding the fish. “I’ll go with the salmon.”
Buckley ordered the ribeye steak rare with braised fennel and shallots. Before their dinners came, several white-haired men stopped by the table to say hello. The last man had the craggy, handsome features of a British diplomat. “Stewart, good to see you. How are Beth and the grandkids?”
“All fine, Robert. Meet Jack Bailey. Jack, Robert Weaver.”
Jack started to rise. “Don’t get up, Jack,” Weaver said, staring at him. The men shook hands. “You’re probably tired of people saying you’re a dead ringer for, uh, can’t think of his name. An actor I think.”
Jack cringed, gave a half smile. “Liam Neeson?”
“Yes, that’s it. You’re obviously Irish too.”
The men chortled, and Weaver took his leave.
Their dinners were served in good order, the waiter polite but not intrusive. Perfectly trained, Jack thought. He glanced at Buckley as the man took his knife and sawed into his slab of meat, red juice oozing onto the plate. Never could hack rare beef.