by Rick Polad
When I got home I called Paul and left a message on his machine to end the surveillance and send me a bill.
Chapter 6
I met with Mrs. Margot at ten Monday morning and told her everything was going as well as it could for Reynolds, and there was nothing further I could do to help. Mr. Malbry had things under control, and it was very likely Reynolds would get probation as long as he cooperated. That was the wild card in the game, but I didn’t tell her that. She wouldn’t have been able to help—it was obvious she held no influence over Reynolds.
I went into the office every day and tried to look important. I practiced darts and chatted with Carol, who was becoming more comfortable with getting paid when there was nothing to do. Once in a while the phone rang, and I had to tell people I didn’t do marital work. Sometimes I didn’t go in until three, so I could play darts with Billy.
The week went by quickly. I was in the office Friday morning, considering taking a trip up to Door County and spending the weekend at the cottage and inviting myself to dinner with Aunt Rose. Carol thought it was a great idea… she was getting tired of babysitting me. I was going to call Aunt Rose and tell her I was coming when the phone rang. I considered leaving in a hurry, but I didn’t make it. I saw the button on my phone flash, and Carol stepped into my office and said Detective Bast was on line one. She gave me a sad look.
I punched the button. “Hello, Detective.”
“Spencer.”
“I was just going to take the weekend off, so be careful what you say.”
“You can still do that, but I have some news.”
He paused, and I didn’t ask. I figured he’d tell me.
“A patrol car found a body this morning on Madison Avenue.”
Another pause filled with silence.
“Reynolds Margot.”
I stared at the wall. Something had gone terribly wrong.
***
An hour later I was sitting in Bast’s office. Reynolds’ body had been found shortly after dawn, just inside an alley, twenty feet from where he had been selling drugs. He had been shot in the head. The Prophets’ gang sign, a raised fist, had been painted on the brick wall next to the body. The message was clear… Reynolds wouldn’t be doing any talking.
“Let me know the caliber when you find out,” I said.
“Sure. Small… likely a .22, the gun of choice for a gang hit. Enough power to get in but not enough to exit. Makes a mess along the way, but we cops love them… easy to find the bullet.”
“Was he shot in the alley?”
“Plenty of blood.”
“Where do you think this went south, Detective?”
“Any number of places. The Prophets’ message is pretty clear… it’s their turf. If the kid was going to talk, it’s hard to tell what rung on the ladder took care of the problem.”
“I’m not saying this has anything to do with the murder, but I had a chat with Reynolds a week ago. It didn’t sound to me like he was planning on talking.”
“Yeah, well, perception is all that’s needed. Once the feds are involved, these people make some assumptions and don’t really care if their assumptions are correct. The gangs have their own set of rules.”
I sighed and shook my head. “I guess this is a rhetorical question, but how do you handle the gang problem?”
“It’s not totally rhetorical. One kid at a time. The gang unit doesn’t just arrest them. They actually spend more time trying to reach the kids who aren’t in gangs yet... after school programs, sports programs. We need them to join those gangs. If we can give them another option, the gang option isn’t effective. There’s a verse in Proverbs, twenty-two six if memory serves me, that says something like if you train a child the way he should go, then when he’s old he won’t depart from that.”
I nodded. “That’s pretty deep for a cop.”
He laughed. “It’s the battle cry of the lady who runs the gang unit. There’s a banner hung in the rec center where she performs her miracles with that on it.”
“A lot of truth in that. But, if I remember correctly, the Hebrew translation is more of a warning. The King James version changed it to advice.”
“What do you mean?”
“It reads more like… if you leave a child to his own ways he’ll continue those ways as an adult.”
“Wow. From a PI?”
I smiled. “I read a lot.” I let that sit for a moment. “There’s something else.” I waited while he gave instructions to another detective who dropped a file on his desk. “I put an operative on the Margot house. After my meeting with Reynolds, he left and met someone at the local coffee shop who looked to be about the same age as him. My op got the license plate. The car is registered to Senator Nadem.”
He didn’t try to hide his surprise. “This keeps getting better. You think the senator’s kid is in on the drugs?”
“Hard not to.”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“What’s your plan?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “I might just retire.”
I laughed. He didn’t.
“I’ve got a call in to Thward,” he said. “This was in his lap.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.”
He straightened in his chair and arched his back. “This job usually sucks, but sometimes it sucks worse than others.”
“Where to from here?”
“The same as any other murder. But don’t get your hopes up… there are a lot of gang hits in the unsolved drawer. They don’t make many mistakes, and nobody talks… everybody’s afraid. It’s a damned shame… the kid had no idea what he was getting involved in.”
“Maybe the senator’s kid knows something.”
“Could be, but I won’t be asking.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it’ll take a judge and twelve lawyers to get an interview with a senator’s son. And by the time they run out of stalls nobody’ll care anymore.”
“Nice system you’ve got there. I’m usually glad I’m not part of it. Are you talking to Kenilworth?”
“Yes, we had a brief chat this morning.”
“Cooperative?”
“So far, but who’s running the show hasn’t come up yet.” He rubbed his forehead.
“Have you talked to Mrs. Margot?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“Wouldn’t that be part of the process?”
“It would if it wasn’t Kenilworth. It’s like a different country up there. You in on this?”
“Nothing else to do at the moment,” I said. “You think Thward will talk to me?”
“He barely talks to me, and we’re supposedly on the same side.”
“One could make the case that he got the kid killed,” I said.
“That kind of thinking makes people disappear.”
I laughed. “I’m not worried. I’ve got nine lives, and I’ve only used a couple.”
“I’ll read about it in the paper. What’s your plan?”
“Talk to Thward and see if I can have a chat with the senator’s kid.”
He rolled his eyes. “You like challenges, don’t you?”
“So you’re out of this. Not doing anything?”
“Odds are this is gangs, and the Prophets are on top of the list. We’ll put some pressure on them and see what happens.”
“Seems like the thing to do.”
“Maybe, but not so easy. I have to be wary of Thward. I’ve stepped on his toes in the past. Didn’t turn out too well for me.”
“I thought you were on the same side.”
He laughed. “Only on paper. Out on the street, egos get involved, and guys like Thward strut around like big shots.”
I shook my head, got up, started to leave, and then turned back and sat. “Who’s the lady
who runs the gang unit?”
“Benny Landez.”
“Benny?”
“Short for Benita.”
“She’s good at it?”
“The best. The kids love and respect her. She’s got a heart of gold but can be tough as nails, and she doesn’t take crap from anybody, including the bureaucrats who talk a good game but just give her excuses as to why there’s no money.”
“Sounds like a good person to have on your side. I’d like to talk to her. Can you set it up?”
He opened a drawer, pulled out his business card, wrote an address on the back, and handed it to me. “She’s at the rec center in the basement of St. Agatha’s from nine in the morning until whenever. Give her my best.”
I nodded. “Will do.” I stood. “We still sharing information?”
“Until I get told not to.”
“Good enough. I’ll be in touch.”
***
I decided to take a drive up to Kenilworth and offer my condolences, but first I called Carol and asked her to see if I could get an appointment on Monday with Agent Thward. When I got to Margot’s house, there were three expensive cars in the driveway. I rang the doorbell, and the maid answered.
“Good morning, sir. Please have a seat in the study, and I’ll tell Mrs. Margot you’re here.” She gestured toward the room ahead and off to the left.
I sat on a red leather chair and tried to ignore the message from my hungry stomach. The walls were paneled in a dark wood. One wall was built-in bookcases, floor to ceiling. A large wooden desk was opposite the books. The top was clear except for a lamp. The double doors were open, and I could hear muffled voices. I stood when Mrs. Margot came in ten minutes later with red eyes.
“Oh, Spencer, thank you for coming.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Margot.”
“Please… Jeanne.”
“Jeanne. I’m sorry about your son.”
She led me to the couch, and we sat. Her eyes filled with tears. “Now I’ve lost them both. I…”
Her voice trailed off as she cried. That was something money couldn’t fix.
She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and said, “What kind of world do we live in, Spencer? Who would kill a boy who…?” She was trying to find answers where there were none.
I looked around the room. She had a beautiful house that was filled with sadness. She took my hand, and I held hers.
Her eyes filled with tears again. “Why…?”
I didn’t have a lot of good answers, but said, “He got involved with some bad people, Jeanne. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“It’s all my fault. If I had just…” She tried to compose herself. “Will they find who…?
“We’re going to try.”
“We’re? You’re going to help?”
“I am. I’ve got a soft spot for kids.”
She squeezed my hand tighter. “Thank you, Spencer. I’ll write you a check.”
I shook my head. “No need. At some point, if you want to, you can write a check to a charity to help with the drug problem. We’ll talk about that later.”
She wiped her eyes again. “Certainly, but I’d like to help. Is there anything I can do?”
“Are you up to answering a few questions?”
She took a deep breath and nodded.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night at dinner.”
“Did he seem upset about anything?”
She looked like she was struggling to remember and shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did you talk?”
She looked down at her hands. “We don’t talk… didn’t talk much. He did say he was going out. I asked where and who with. He gave me a disgusted look and just said with friends. I asked him to be home by eleven, and he said he would. When midnight came, I…” Her eyes started to water. “I called the police.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex.
“What time did he leave?”
“About eight thirty.”
“Tell me about his friends.”
She looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Who did he hang around with? What did they do?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. He never mentioned anyone in particular.”
“He didn’t talk about his friends, or say where he was going?”
“No, he was just going out.” She looked even sadder. “After his father died, I thought I should let him do whatever made him happy. I didn’t want to be a prying parent.”
I wanted to point out that there was a difference between prying and caring, and maybe that was why she had lost her son, but I kept it to myself. She was having enough trouble facing it without my hitting her over the head with it.
“He didn’t introduce you to friends who came over here?”
She looked at me with vacant eyes, forlorn and hopeless, and didn’t answer for about a minute. Then, very quietly, she said, “No one ever came over here.”
I could see she was coming to grips with how odd that was.
“I never thought… I was too wrapped up in my own life, trying to keep together what we had left. I…” She wiped her eyes.
I put my arm around her shoulder. “A girlfriend?”
She slowly shook her head. “No… no one.” Her crying turned into sobs, and she put her head on my shoulder. I knew she had just figured out what she should have done differently. And perhaps she realized she had everything a person could want except for one thing… time. Time to spend with her son, time to fix what had gone so wrong. And I also knew I was probably the only friend she had who knew that mattered. I wanted to hold her forever… because I had a feeling I was all she had left. But I had a job to do, and maybe my doing my job would help her.
When she calmed down, I said, “I have one more question.”
She sat up and nodded.
“Do you know Senator Nadem?”
“Yes. We’ve been involved in some of the same charity events, and I’ve contributed to his campaign.”
“Do you know his son?”
“Mark? I’ve met him. Why do you ask?”
“Did Reynolds know him?”
“I think he did. But Reynolds didn’t want anything to do with what he called the establishment.” She gave me a puzzled look. “Why do you ask? Do you think he had anything to do with this?”
“Just wondering. His name came up last week, but it was probably nothing.”
I told her I’d stay in touch and wished her well. But I knew it was going to be quite a while before she was anywhere near well. I let myself out.
Chapter 7
I took the scenic route down Green Bay Road to Lake Street and jogged over to the Edens Expressway. At a little after two, traffic was just building into rush hour as I merged onto the Kennedy Expressway and made my way down to Ogden Avenue, where I exited west and made my way to St. Agatha Catholic Church on the west side of the city. I pulled into a small, almost empty parking lot and parked in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary recessed into a stone wall.
One thing I had always found amazing about Catholic churches was that the doors weren’t locked during the day. I understood the principle. Those who sought the peace and quiet of the sanctuary were given access, but I was in the crime business, and this was the west side of Chicago.
I walked around the front and up the stone steps. A man wrapped up in a navy-blue blanket sat with his back against the wall on the parapet to the left of the steps. He had a beard and long hair and looked like he needed a bath. He appeared to be asleep. I tucked a ten-dollar bill between his hand and the blanket.
As I pulled open one of the large wooden doors, I heard organ music. The door closed behind me, and I walked through the narthex, separate
d from the pews by marble columns. Sunlight brightened the vivid colors of the vertical stained glass windows on the west side of the sanctuary. I walked to the second row of pews and sat on the aisle and listened to the music. I got a glance and a smile from the man at the organ.
When he finished with a long-held majestic chord, he walked down the four steps and asked if he could help me.
I stood. “Yes, but I enjoyed the concert. What was that you were playing?”
“It’s a Bach chorale prelude for part of Sunday’s Mass.”
“You play beautifully.”
“Thank you, but what can I help with?”
“I’m looking for Benita Landez.”
He smiled again. “Ah, yes, but no one calls her Benita. She prefers Benny.”
I smiled.
“If you go back toward the street, you’ll see stairs on your left that will take you down to the basement. Just follow the hall. You’ll find her.”
I thanked him and headed back up the aisle. By the time I got to the stairs he had started playing again. Another thing I found interesting about Catholic churches was the drastic change in environment from the sanctuary to the basement. Stained glass windows, marble columns, and carved wood quickly changed to concrete, linoleum tile, and cinder block… from exalted to functional. St. Agatha’s was no different. And at the bottom of the stairs was a sign on the wall showing the way to the bomb shelter. I didn’t recall a bomb shelter in our church when I was a kid. I followed the sound of excited voices down a long hallway. Almost at the end were double doors on my left that opened into a gym area where there was a game of volleyball going on. There were six kids on one side and seven on the other… three more girls than boys. Two boys were playing chess on a worn-out board against the back wall. The banner with Benita’s battle cry was hanging five feet above their heads.
Standing on the other side of the room was a woman about my height in jeans and a plain sweatshirt with long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail and a whistle in her mouth. Even covered by a sweatshirt, she looked like she was all muscle. She looked like she could hold up a car with one hand while she changed the tire with the other… not someone you’d want to mess with. She glanced at me when I walked in, but made no attempt to investigate the intruder. I watched the game for a few minutes and then walked around the back of the court to her side. As I came up to her she blew her whistle and declared a hand foul on the net against a boy with glasses. He rolled his eyes, and a teammate threw the ball to the other side.
