‘I have a pistol strapped under my desk. I have friends who are quicker with a trigger than I am.’
‘You’re the kind of guy who dies,’ she said. ‘You know that, don’t you? You hear gunfire, and you run toward it. I feel sorry for you, Kelson, but if you insist on diving in front of bullets, there’s not much we can do for you.’
Kelson went out to his car and drove north through the city. He pulled into a spot in the parking garage by his office and went down to the sidewalk. ‘Diving in front of bullets?’ Then he asked a man coming out of his building, ‘Do I look like I have a death wish?’ Without waiting for an answer, he went in and pushed the call button for the elevator. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I have a life wish.’ He rode up to his office, and as the doors opened, he added, ‘For me, it’s all extra.’ He went down the corridor.
Where he stopped hard.
His door was open a crack.
‘On second thought,’ he said, and pushed inside.
Jeffrey Vargas, dressed in the all-black suit he wore at Club Richelieu, looked up, startled, from one of the client chairs.
Kelson walked past him and pulled his KelTec pistol from under his desktop. He pointed it at Vargas.
The other man shrank back. ‘What?’
‘How did you get in here?’
‘The door was open.’
‘Why?’ Kelson said.
‘How do I know?’
Kelson opened the desk drawer with the laptop. Had someone broken in and checked it? He went to the file cabinet. Had someone thumbed through the folders?
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Frida …’ Vargas said. He looked like he was hurting.
Kelson breathed out. ‘Yeah, Frida.’ The fear and anger sucked from him.
‘She liked you,’ Vargas said.
‘I think so.’
‘I’ve been waiting here – to talk to you – to tell you that …’
Kelson laid the pistol on his desk. ‘Thank you.’
‘She loved – men,’ Vargas said. ‘Not all men. Broken men. You. Me. She didn’t love me the way she loved you, but she loved me.’
The gun looked obscene on the desk. Kelson wanted to put it out of sight. He left it. ‘I don’t know.’
‘She also was broken,’ Vargas said. ‘But you know what they say about broken bones.’
‘No.’
‘They get stronger when they heal – at the point of the break. She saw that in others. Strong broken people.’
‘You knew her well,’ Kelson said.
‘I loved her.’
‘Oh,’ Kelson said.
‘I wasn’t with her,’ Vargas said. ‘Not like that.’ He looked at Kelson to see if he understood.
Kelson didn’t.
‘I’m with Scott,’ Vargas said.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
‘We keep it quiet. Because of his dad.’
‘Right,’ Kelson said.
‘He knows. His dad does. But he thinks people take advantage of Scott. We keep it quiet.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t think you do. You followed us on the night when that man was shot at in the alley—’
‘Alex Kovacic.’
‘We were going to talk to Scott’s dad at the hospital.’
‘But then you turned around,’ Kelson said. ‘You went up Lincoln Avenue—’
‘Scott called the hospital, and his dad wasn’t there,’ Vargas said. ‘He’s never there when you think he is.’
‘Why did you want to talk to him? Why did you go up Lincoln instead?’
‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘I’m asking you to explain.’
Vargas stared at him. Then he stood up from the chair. ‘No.’ He looked weary.
‘Why?’
‘You can’t help. You have no idea.’
‘I know one thing. You act like you’re broken up over Frida, but all you want is to figure out how much of a threat I am to you.’
‘No,’ Vargas said. ‘My feelings about Frida are real.’
‘I know another thing. You’re scared. How long did you wait here for me? Was the door really unlocked, or did you break in? What are you afraid of me finding out?’
Vargas went to the door, stopped. ‘There are things about Scott’s family that would blow you away.’
‘You mean like the sexual abuse?’
That jolted Vargas.
‘Huh,’ Kelson said.
But then Vargas surprised him. ‘Do you know what that family does?’ he asked. ‘They take care of each other. That’s called love. Not the puppy love you think you felt for Frida. Not the kind I have for Scott either. This is the real thing – hardcore love. I’ll tell you something else. There’s nothing more dangerous than that kind of love. It’s the kind you kill for.’
FIFTY-SEVEN
When Vargas left, Kelson called Ed Davies and said, ‘I need to talk with Scott Jacobson.’
‘Won’t happen.’
‘I’ve heard he has a team of, like, ten lawyers. You must know at least one of them.’
‘Sure, I know Diane Manning. Her specialty is making opposing witnesses cry.’
‘What would it take for her to get me in?’
‘More than you have to give – more than you’d be willing to give even if you had it.’
‘What if I could get the charges against Scott Jacobson dropped?’
‘You can’t,’ Davies said. ‘No one puts ten players on the field unless they’re guilty as hell and trying to chip at the prosecution.’
‘Call her and tell her I’ll meet her at the county jail.’
‘She’ll rip my head off.’
‘I’ll buy you a new one,’ Kelson said. ‘Tell her I’ve got the inside from the arresting detectives.’
‘She’ll still rip my head off.’
‘She can take my head instead if she doesn’t like what she hears. I’m used to it.’
Two hours later, Kelson walked into one of the five-story brick and concrete bunkers that served as jail for Chicago and the surrounding suburbs. The big gray, open reception area smelled of disinfectant and sour, unwashed bodies, a stink that got stronger the farther in Kelson went.
Diane Manning stood by the security checkpoint in a navy-blue jacket. She ignored Kelson’s offer of a handshake and said, ‘Eddie says you always tell the truth.’
‘Eddie? No one calls him that.’
‘I do. He says you play straight.’
‘I haven’t bent since getting shot in the head three years ago. I also talk too much.’
‘Eddie says that too. We’ll see.’ She nodded at the guards. ‘They’ll want to look in your pants before they let you see my client.’
‘I’ve been here before,’ Kelson said.
‘That’s what Eddie says.’
The guards took Kelson into a separate room, where they searched him for weapons, pills, and other contraband. Then they led him and the lawyer to a gray room with a bolted-down table and chairs.
A couple minutes later, guided by another guard, Scott Jacobson came in. His hair looked matted, as if he’d been sleeping, or slapping himself in the head with an open fist. He wore a black nylon smock – sleeveless, open wide at his neck, squared off below his knees. No shoes, no slippers, no socks, belt, or laces.
Diane Manning told him, ‘Mr Kelson says he can clear you. Based on a reference he’s received, I think you should talk with him. But if any of his questions make you uncomfortable, don’t answer. If he asks questions I think you’d be ill advised to answer, I’ll tell you. Do you understand?’
Scott showed no sign he heard her. But he went to the table and sat.
Kelson took a chair across from him.
Diane Manning stood at the table like a referee.
‘Hey there,’ Kelson said.
Scott stared through him.
‘Me too,’ Kelson said, and leaned in enough to smell
the fear and pain that clung to the other man. ‘According to the police, you set up a series of killings so complicated almost no one realized they were happening at the time. I don’t think you did them. I don’t think you’re smart enough.’
The lawyer gave him a warning look. ‘Mr Kelson …’
‘You aren’t complicated that way. Nothing wrong with that. You’re a fairly simple guy. The only killing you look capable of – Frida’s – you couldn’t have done since you were already locked up. The cops won’t worry about getting you for her if they can nail you for the earlier killings – which takes us back to them being too complicated for a simple guy like you.’
‘Get to the point, Mr Kelson,’ the lawyer said.
‘For instance, the Wendy Thomas angle. She’s a perfect scapegoat. Even if she didn’t have direct access to the epinephrine that killed Patricia Ruddig, Josh Templeton, and Daryl Vaughn, she could work out a way to get it. And she knew what to do with it – how and when to administer it so no one would suspect it. That’s knowledge a simple guy with no medical training wouldn’t have, even if he spent a lot of time lurking around a hospital. But this is where it gets interesting. The police think you maybe blackmailed Suzanne Madani to get the epinephrine – she got you the drugs and you kept her secret about unauthorized admissions of homeless men—’
Diane Manning said, ‘I don’t see how this helps.’
‘But even the blackmail is too complicated,’ Kelson said. ‘If you were ripping off Xanax or amphetamines – something you could share with your friends at Club Richelieu – that would make sense. But epinephrine? No. That’s too tricky and you’d have no use for it – unless you got it for someone else, someone who knew how and when to use it. I don’t think you did any of the killings. I think your team of lawyers will figure that out on their own, sooner or later, and if they’re worth what your dad must be paying them, they can convince a jury. So if you don’t succeed in killing yourself first, you’ll walk out of jail free, with or without my help.’
The lawyer said, ‘You might underestimate the challenges we face in this case.’
‘I don’t overestimate your ability, though,’ he said. Then, to Scott Jacobson, ‘That takes us back to the beginning. What did Patricia Ruddig really see when your mother died? I mean, the driveway in front of your house is narrow. The hedges on the sides are big. Unless Patricia Ruddig was standing on your front porch, she must’ve seen only the rear of your car as you backed out. Hard to imagine she saw much at all.’
Scott started to keen, from deep in his throat.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Kelson said.
‘Enough,’ the lawyer said.
But Kelson said to Scott, ‘On the night that the Lincoln Avenue alley got shot up, you and Jeffrey Vargas wanted to talk to your dad at the hospital. But you called and he was gone. What made you think you’d find him on Lincoln? What did you think he’d be doing there?’
Scott keened more loudly.
A guard peered into the room through wire-mesh security glass. Diane Manning said, ‘No more,’ and signaled to the guard to come in.
‘Did your dad diddle you when you were a kid?’ Kelson asked. ‘Did Rick? Why would you want to protect whoever did it?’
Scott keened.
The lawyer told the guard, ‘Get my client out of here.’
After the guard did, the lawyer glowered at Kelson. ‘You scumbag.’
‘Are you going to rip my head off?’ he asked her. ‘Do you want to make me cry?’
FIFTY-EIGHT
Wendy Thomas called Kelson at his office a little after four p.m. When she calmed down enough to talk straight, she said Jose was home – beaten badly but alive. Kelson needed to come. Right away. Jose would explain.
‘Who had him?’ Kelson asked. ‘Where was he?’
Jose needed to tell the story, she said.
‘Put him on the phone.’
‘Please come.’
Kelson hesitated. ‘Is someone making you say this?’
‘No, Jose’s scared—’
‘The bull rider’s scared? I never thought I’d see it.’
‘Please come.’
‘A half-hour,’ he said, and hung up. Then he dialed Rodman and said, ‘Something’s up at Jose’s house.’ He described Wendy’s call and said, ‘Meet me there?’
‘I’m walking out the door,’ Rodman said. ‘If you get there first, don’t go in without me. I’ll bring Marty too.’
Kelson stuck his KelTec in his belt, went down to the lobby, and walked out to the sidewalk. A thick stream of rush-hour cars moved through the street. The wind was rising. He crossed toward the parking garage. He saw the stream of cars – saw the pedestrians around him – saw a sheet of newspaper that the wind picked up and slapped against the side of a city bus.
But he didn’t see the shooter.
And he didn’t hear the gunshot.
He felt a massive fist slug him in the shoulder – on the same side Gary Renshaw had shot him less than a month earlier.
The blow spun him.
He seemed to dance.
The people around him stared, astonished.
He lifted off his feet – rising from his toes.
What did ballerinas call that move?
Then he was falling – always falling.
He crashed against the freezing pavement.
‘Dammit,’ he said.
Astonished eyes stared down at him.
Hands reached for him.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t …’ He groped for his pistol.
The eyes saw the gun. The hands drew back.
The eyes receded.
He was no longer a victim but a threat.
The cold wind blew, and he was cold.
Then, with impossible speed, an ambulance siren neared.
‘It doesn’t work this way,’ he said.
No one was listening.
The eyes, the hands, seemed miles away. He was alone.
The freezing wind licked at his neck.
He was a step behind, a minute late.
The ambulance came and idled on the street.
Fingers touched him. Latex gloves. Containing the damage of his wound.
Eyes stared at him. Impossibly close. Magnifying-glass eyes.
‘I’m not a lab rat,’ he told them.
‘Stay calm, sir,’ said a paramedic.
Kelson made a noise.
‘You’re going to be fine.’ Prodding fingers. Reassuring voices. The paramedic cut off Kelson’s coat, exposing the wound. It was bloody – the bullet went in but never came out.
‘I’m OK,’ Kelson said. ‘I’ll be …’ He tried to sit up.
The gloved fingers held him down. ‘We’re here to help.’ The paramedic held a compress on the wound.
‘I’m OK,’ Kelson said. ‘I need to get to Jose—’
‘Did someone shoot Jose?’ the paramedic asked.
‘Not that I know.’
‘Then Jose can wait.’
Kelson struggled. ‘I …’
The hands held him. ‘Sedate?’ another paramedic said.
‘No,’ Kelson said.
‘Do it,’ the first said.
A syringe injected him. ‘You need to stay calm, sir. Everything’ll be all right if you stay calm.’
Like a paralytic dream, the drug took the fight out of Kelson. He said, ‘I need to … I need …’
‘You need us to take care of you right now,’ a voice said.
They put him on a stretcher and strapped his wrists, his waist, his ankles. The crowd crept close. Eyes, so many eyes – hungry for the sight of a wounded man. They kept their hands to themselves. ‘Which,’ Kelson said, ‘is something. Better than tearing off pieces of my flesh.’
Other sirens approached, responding after a delay one might reasonably expect for a thing like this.
Kelson gazed at the eyes in the crowd. He gazed at the paramedics rushing him to the ambulance. ‘It doesn’t work this way
,’ he said.
‘It’ll be all right,’ one of them said.
The other reached to open the back doors. Kelson read the letters on the ambulance.
A Z T
‘Goddammit,’ Kelson said, and struggled against the Velcro restraints.
‘Calm down, sir,’ the paramedics said. ‘Calm down.’ They shoved him inside.
On the way to Clement Memorial, Kelson told them the danger he was in. They listened with the boredom of men used to dealing with the ramblings of the incoherent or mentally ill. When one suggested another sedative, Kelson swore he’d try to stay quiet. He failed but they hooked him to a saline IV instead and wrapped his uninjured arm in a blood pressure cuff.
‘I need you to call one of my friends and tell him where you’re taking me,’ Kelson said. ‘And my lawyer.’ He gave them Rodman’s and Ed Davies’ numbers.
‘Sure,’ said the one who wanted to give him the sedative, ‘you can take care of that at the hospital. Right now let’s make sure we get you there in good shape.’
‘How’d you come so fast?’ Kelson asked. ‘I hardly hit the ground before I bounced into your hands.’
‘We’re very good at our job,’ the other one said.
FIFTY-NINE
When the ambulance pulled into the emergency bay at Clement Memorial, two men in scrubs came and, together with the paramedic who liked sedatives, guided Kelson’s stretcher through double glass doors. They wheeled him down a corridor to a triage room, where a tall Asian doctor was waiting.
Kelson tugged against the Velcro. ‘Would you please unhook me?’
The doctor – whose ID called him Akira Handa – ignored the question. He scanned Kelson’s vitals. He shined a penlight in his eyes. He asked him his name, his age, his address. He peeled the compress from the wound and inspected the point of entry. He looked disappointed. ‘What’s the rush?’ he asked the paramedic.
‘A gunshot. We understood—’
‘Is there major blood loss?’ Dr Handa asked. ‘Do you see evidence of cardiac or respiratory distress – anything beyond the trauma to the shoulder?’
The paramedic said again, ‘We understood—’
‘Put him in non-critical care.’
‘Could you unstrap me?’ Kelson asked.
Dr Handa looked at the paramedic, who gave a little headshake. ‘Will you behave yourself?’ he asked Kelson.
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