The Chicago Way mk-1 Read online

  “Either they think I’m good for the murder,” I said, “which is insane, and therefore probably what you suspect. Or they want to know what Gibbons was working on and they think I might know.”

  “What was he working on?”

  I studied a piece of green cubicle just above Diane’s head and to the left.

  “Look, Kelly,” she said. “You’re right. The cops did tip me. They do want to talk to you.”

  The slightest of pauses, and then she continued.

  “Now, why would that be?”

  I shrugged.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said. “I get anything I think you can use, I’ll let you know. If I can, I’ll do it before I go to the cops. But it’s a two-way street. You screw me and…”

  I shrugged again.

  “Just don’t screw me.”

  “Deal.” Diane stuck out her hand. I held it longer than I wanted.

  “Now, how about the tape,” I said.

  She pulled a VHS cassette off the desk.

  “This is a dub of the footage we shot tonight. You can take it home. With one additional condition.”

  “And what might that be?” I said.

  “That you take me with you.”

  Approximately three and a half minutes later, we were in a cab, heading south on Michigan Avenue.

  CHAPTER 4

  So you’re thinking you’re going to turn the page and find me in flagrante delicto with Red. Right? Wrong. Diane was just joking. Some strange brand of anchorwoman humor, no doubt.

  She did, however, buy me a drink. In Chicago, at a few minutes before five in the morning, the choices are limited but endlessly interesting. We went to the Inkwell, a local hangout for news types, tucked into the shadow of the Michigan Avenue bridge.

  “So, Mr. Kelly.” Diane drank her whiskey neat with a water chaser. I had a Lite beer from Miller. I figured we were both putting on airs.

  “So, Ms. Lindsay.”

  “Here’s to your friend.”

  “Associate,” I said and cracked my tooth on a peanut shell that felt like it was filled with cement. When I opened it, petrified peanuts turned to dust and fell to the floor.

  “I hadn’t seen John Gibbons in four years before yesterday afternoon.”

  “That’s how he got your card?” Diane said.

  “He wanted some help on a case. A woman was assaulted. Long time ago.”

  I motioned to the bartender. He was asleep, so I threw a peanut at him. It nearly knocked him into the beer cooler. He came out with another Lite.

  “And less than ten hours later, Gibbons winds up shot,” Diane said. “Shot as in dead.”

  “The worst kind,” I said.

  Diane drained her glass. A fresh one appeared at her elbow.

  “You know what we call that in the news business, Mr. Kelly?”

  “A coincidence?”

  “No, Mr. Kelly. In the news business, that’s a story.”

  “I don’t know much about news stories. But I do know a little bit about murder. Gibbons wasn’t the type to go into anything blind. He could handle himself and knew it.”

  My little speech gave Diane pause.

  “Your friend was shot at a range of one to two feet,” she said and passed over a copy of the initial police report. “He wasn’t carrying a gun and there were no signs of a struggle.”

  I glanced through the report and laid it down by my elbow.

  “That’s interesting, Ms. Lindsay. But let me ask you a question. How much do you make for a living?”

  The anchorwoman shot her glass back to the bar and got up to go. I stopped her in an easy sort of way.

  “Now don’t go off getting offended. Let’s say it’s a half million.”

  She started to get up again.

  “Okay, okay. Let’s say it’s a million. Why does someone who gets paid a million dollars go to her TV station in the middle of the night to cover a story about a retired Chicago cop who gets stiffed?”

  Diane smiled. Maybe a little too quick for her own good. Then she turned back to the bartender. I shrugged, walked to a window, and looked out. It was the gray just before morning. Buildings blurred and crowded close together. Wisps of fog slid across the surface of the Chicago River, running fast and steady from the locks and Lake Michigan beyond.

  Diane sidled close and offered a fresh drink. This time it was whiskey, like hers. She laid her forehead against the window. The last whispers of night pushed gently against the glass. We stayed that way and watched for a while, until the first cold fingers of dawn brushed the top of the Wrigley Building, moved down the white lady, and pretended to warm the city below.

  “What’s your deal, Kelly?”

  “Huh?”

  She turned and gave me a look only single women over thirty can manage.

  “You’re what, thirty-two, thirty-three?”

  I took a sip of whiskey and nodded. I was really thirty-five, but what the hell.

  “Ever been married?”

  I shook my head.

  “Engaged?”

  Another shake.

  “Afraid?”

  I shrugged.

  She shrugged.

  “With these kinds of conversation skills, you should be.”

  “I love it when you’re charming,” I said.

  “What do you know about the TV business in Chicago?”

  “I turn on the TV and there it is.”

  “Chicago’s the third-largest market in the country,” she said. “Far and away, the biggest snake pit. I’m in the last year of my contract with a news director who likes blondes and bodies. I have neither.”

  I was about to disagree but thought better.

  “I need a big story or six months from now I’m shooting consumer pieces in Flint, Michigan. After five years in Chicago, Flint doesn’t work for me. In fact, Flint never worked for me. Bottom line, I just don’t have a lot of time here, Kelly. Then again, if the police are any indication, neither do you.”

  At least she smiled when she said it.

  THE SKY WAS TINGED a smoky sort of pink as we exited the Inkwell. I held the door open for a couple of cops I knew, out-of-uniform guys. They ducked their heads when they saw Diane, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was quiet. Maybe she was thinking about the murder. Maybe she was thinking about going to bed with me. Maybe she was just drunk.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you read through the police report and look at the tapes. Then we can touch base.”

  A taxi pulled to the curb. She stepped into the back and rolled down the window.

  “Nice meeting you, Mr. Kelly.”

  “Bye, Diane.”

  The cab began to pull away, then paused.

  “Oh, and Mr. Kelly…”

  I leaned forward. She did the same. Our faces hovered at the precipice, inches apart.

  “Yes, Diane.”

  “Whoever killed your friend fired from close range. Makes me think Gibbons must have known his attacker. Probably trusted him.”

  I nodded.

  “And well, Mr. Kelly, doesn’t that make you a legitimate suspect?”

  She blinked once and waited.

  “Talk to you, Diane.”

  I gave the cab a rap and off it went. She was right, of course. John Gibbons had to have known his killer. And trusted him. Unless the killer was a woman. Then all bets were off.

  CHAPTER 5

  The cabbie dropped me a half block from my flat. His rig belched white smoke as it drifted around a corner, and I tasted the grit at the back of my throat. My apartment was one of three in a walk-up graystone. Not a bad place, but better in the summer when Wrigley Field was only two blocks away.

  I fully expected to find Chicago’s finest camped on my stoop. Instead, I found the Sunday morning paper and a Saturday evening blonde. Not necessarily in that order.

  She scattered a smile around the corners of my doorstep. I stepped forward to inhale as much as I could. I figured she hadn’t opened her m
outh yet and this might be as good as it got. I was right.

  “Hi, Mr. Kelly,” she said. “My name is Elaine Remington. I’m the woman from John Gibbons’ letter. The one who almost got killed.”

  From her bag Ms. Remington pulled a more than capable-looking nine millimeter and pointed it in the general direction of my left eye.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” she said.

  “Sure,” I said.

  My keys came out of a pocket but had trouble fitting in the lock. Capable-looking nine millimeters will do that to a set of keys.

  “If you see any cops inside, yell and I’ll shoot them,” I said.

  She wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “Better yet, why don’t you just shoot them yourself?”

  She motioned with the gun and I went inside.

  I sat her down on the best chair in the best corner of my flat. I figured it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Besides, she had the gun and would take it anyway.

  “Want some coffee?” I said. She shook her head and pulled my piece off my hip.

  “Thanks,” I said. “How about some orange juice?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “Orange juice is a good source of potassium. Women need that, you know.”

  I didn’t know and didn’t argue.

  She unloaded my gun and checked the pipe. I rustled through my fridge looking for another suitable weapon. Nothing came to mind. She had already figured this out and kept talking.

  “Sorry about the gun, Mr. Kelly. It’s just a precaution. Girl needs to be able to protect herself.”

  I placed the orange nectar squarely before her and took a less-than-comfortable perch on the sofa.

  “How do I know you’re the woman from the letter?” I said.

  She got up from the chair. With one hand, she began to undo the first few buttons of her top. To my credit, I kept my eye on the nine. It didn’t waver.

  “Here,” she said.

  The scar was purple, thick, jagged, and heading south from just under her collarbone.

  “It goes to just about here.” She pointed halfway to her waist.

  “You know how many pints of blood the human body holds, Mr. Kelly?”

  I didn’t.

  “Eight. I lost six. They basically reinflated my body. With blood, I mean.”

  The gun faltered just a bit. Then found its focus.

  “He raped me, too, Mr. Kelly. Did Gibbons tell you that? Probably not. Tied me up like a hog. Laughed about that for a while. Then he raped me.”

  She flicked her hair back, and the skin under her right eye twitched once.

  “Listen, Ms. Remington,” I said. “Why don’t we put the gun down and talk about it.”

  “Gibbons was supposed to help,” she said. “Now he’s dead.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw him last night. A bar called the Hidden Shamrock over on Halsted and Diversey. Gibbons liked to hang out there. You know the place?”

  I did.

  “I met him there,” she continued. “He told me about you maybe helping us and said he had a lead. Said he had to meet a guy down at Navy Pier.”

  “And you followed him?”

  Now her eyes slid away.

  “He was supposed to come back to my place close to midnight. When he didn’t show, I went down to the pier. I found him there and called the police.”

  “Did the police talk to you?”

  “Until about a half hour ago. They asked me about you.”

  “How wonderful of them.”

  “Why do you think they did that?”

  “I have no idea, Ms. Remington.”

  Her smile was tight now. The tic under her eye was constant. Like a heartbeat. I judged the distance from my hand to the gun. Not good enough.

  “You think I killed Gibbons,” I said. “Hell, he was shot with a nine. Take that one down to the station and have your friends test it.”

  Her eyes flicked to my weapon lying on the coffee table.

  “But tell me first,” I said. “Why did I kill him?”

  “I don’t know that you did, Mr. Kelly. What did John tell you?”

  “He showed me your letter.”

  I reached for a cigarette. She raised the gun and I showed her the pack. Marlboros.

  “Okay,” she said.

  I crossed my legs. She did the same. But better.

  “Gibbons asked me to help you,” I said. “Then he gave me a retainer. May I?”

  I pulled the envelope with cash from my coat pocket and threw it toward her. She didn’t bother to look at it. I lit my cigarette and continued.

  “So technically, I guess, you’re my client. Although I don’t see as you need a whole lot of protecting. At least for the moment.”

  I drew deep and let out some smoke. She coughed a little. I enjoyed that. Sometimes one must live for life’s smaller triumphs. Then she finished coughing and started talking again.

  “What about the rest of it, Mr. Kelly?”

  It’s the kind of question you want to have some sort of answer to, at least when someone is pointing the business end of a gun your way. I did the best I could.

  “The rest of what?”

  “Don’t play fuck-fuck with me, Mr. Kelly. What else did Gibbons tell you?”

  The possibilities for postmodern witty repartee, not to mention a close, meaningful relationship, seemed plentiful. Or she could just shoot me in the head and be done with it. Then the doorbell rang and the moment shifted.

  “Expecting someone?” Elaine said.

  “Not so you would notice.”

  “I’ll be just down the hall.”

  She grabbed her orange juice, tucked her gun neatly into her handbag, and headed toward my bedroom. The bell rang a second time.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  I opened the door to a gold detective shield.

  “Michael Kelly?” said the voice from behind the shield.

  “Where the hell you guys been?” I said.

  CHAPTER 6

  One detective stood at attention. The other was loose-jointed and kicked at a rock on the pavement. I was on the top step, my back to the front door. They both squinted up at me through the morning glare. So much the better. I thought about Elaine Remington, alone in the apartment, rummaging through my various belongings. So much the worse. Loose-jointed flashed his badge again. In case I had any doubts. I caught a glimpse of the gold but no name.

  “Dan Masters. This is my partner, Joe Ringles.”

  Ringles gave a bit of a salute. He looked lost without a swagger stick.

  “You been waiting for us, huh?” said Masters. “Why exactly is that, I wonder?”

  Masters was the older of the two. Gray buzz cut gave way to a shiny forehead and sharp ears set close. His eyebrows were crisscrossed with scars. The rest of his face was a bag of skin with red holes where eyes should have been and a slash that moved when he spoke. Booze and twenty years on the job will do that to you.

  “John Gibbons,” I said. “Friend of mine. Found dead last night.”

  “You want to tell me how you know that, sir?”

  That was Ringles. The younger of the two, his buzz cut was still brown and shaved high on the sides. He had no eyebrows to speak of, and the skin was tight over thin cheekbones. His chin was soft enough to make him a target. I gave him the shoulder. Ringles didn’t like it.

  “I asked you a question, sir.”

  Ringles stepped forward. He was probably in my space, if I thought about it. I didn’t. I just hit him. It doesn’t take much if you know how. Just three inches to the solar plexus. I don’t think Masters even noticed. Ringles did. He fell backward over a convenient piece of shrubbery. The landing area was just a bit muddy.

  “Watch it there,” I said.

  Ringles came up out of the mud with his piece out. He even looked stupid enough to use it. Fortunately, Masters came around.

  “Park it, Joe.”

  Ringles glared at me over the sight. I stood my ground
and tried to ignore the hammer in my chest. Slowly he eased back on the trigger and pulled out the cuffs. I turned back to the older cop.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  Masters looked at a point in space somewhere between Ringles and myself. Then he shook his head. The cuffs went away.

  “I’ll drive down,” I said. “If it’s all right with you guys.”

  Masters was already heading back to his car. “Town Hall,” he said. “You got an hour.”

  I went back into the house. Ringles was left alone, wiping off the back of his pants. I stopped just inside the door and listened. Nothing. I started down the hall.

  “Honey, I’m home.”

  The back door to my flat was open. Elaine Remington was gone. She had rifled my bedroom drawers but left my value pack of ultra-thin, just-like-nothing-at-all condoms. I was slightly disappointed.

  On the mirror, over my dresser, she had scrawled a phone number in lipstick. Just like in the movies. I recognized the number but scribbled it down anyway. Then I filled my pockets with cash. I’d been inside a Chicago cop shop before. It was best to go prepared.

  CHAPTER 7

  At the corner of Halsted and Addison sits Town Hall, the oldest operating police station in Chicago and looking very much the part. I counted seven cops working the front desk. None of them, women included, checked in under two hundred and fifty pounds. Most of them used Selectric typewriters with multiple layers of white, pink, and green report sheets tacked underneath. Carbon paper and Wite-Out were big items, too. One computer, a Sanyo circa 1982, lurked in a dark and forlorn corner. It was covered in the morning remnants of bear claw and held up a chunk of green plaster leaking off the wall.

  “Let’s go.”

  Ringles was gone. Masters had replaced him with a larger version of large.

  “This is Bubbles,” Masters said and pointed in the general direction of Bubbles’ belt buckle.

  “And what do you call the rest of him?”

  Masters smiled and jerked his head toward the bowels of the station. Bubbles grabbed my elbow and the rest of me followed.

  The room was white walls with a cracked Formica table and plastic molded chairs bolted to the floor. A mirror spanned one side.