“Grace is the coolest kid,” Casey filled with pride. “She decided on a Spiderman ice-cream cake. And she made us sing the birthday song twice before we could have the first piece, and then again before the second piece.” Casey thought back to the night before, sitting at her sister’s small dining room table, just the two of them and her niece, the only family she had in the world.
“Spiderman, hey? Didn’t you buy her a fairy house?” I smirked.
“What, a girl can’t be into superheroes? Damn Jack, keep up with the feminist movement already.”
“Sorry I asked.” I raised my hands in surrender.
Casey adored her niece. Her own memories didn’t quite reach back to her real parents, only the first foster home she was ever placed in with her sister Nicole at the age of five. Luckily, Family Services had always kept the two together, no matter how many homes they’d been bounced from. Even now as an investigator, Casey had never been able to dig up information on her parents. Before that first foster home, it was like Casey and Nicole May never even existed; just two little girls who appeared from nowhere, wanted by nobody.
“Alright, enough of your chit-chat.” Casey said as her fingers typed at the speed of light. “We might actually have a serial killer running around murdering the good people of Chicago. So, I also want to have a bit more of a look into Waltz’s last case. The name of Waltz’s last rapist client, was it Chesterfield? Perhaps the client told Waltz a secret that he didn’t want getting out.”
I punched my computer keyboard with the speed of a heavy sloth. Typing wasn’t my thing. I was a lot more comfortable on the streets than in an office. “Chesterfield did do a bit of time.” I read the information off a news website. “But only five months before Waltz came back with an appeal, he’d apparently found some new evidence that had been ‘lost’ in the lab. There was DNA on the victim that didn’t match Chesterfield. The forensics misrepresented it and Waltz used that to create enough doubt and Chesterfield walked. It was headline news. Very controversial. Chesterfield only walked out of prison five days ago and the media outrage was massive.”
“I remember seeing it all over the news last week. That interview on CBS This Morning with Jonathon DiMarco was vicious and had the whole city talking about the corruption of the legal system. He really went for the jugular.” Casey raised her head as soon as she realized what she’d said. “Ha. You know, I was only speaking metaphorically but… I don’t suppose you think there’s a chance he literally went for the jugular, do you?”
“I’m not sure an ex-police captain would want to get his hands dirty like that, but he’s certainly passionate about the dirty lawyer thing. He’s going to love Waltz’s death.” I shifted in my seat and looked up. “Well, wouldn’t you know what Google has to say. One of Jeffery Stone’s greatest hits was also having a supposed child molesting prick exonerated a week before his death. Apparently, he argued a dirty warrant was used and the whole trial was called into question just before his death. And guess who was extremely vocal in their opposition to the decision?”
“Jonathon DiMarco.”
“Right.” I confirmed. “And here’s an interview with Jonathon DiMarco, attacking Jeffery Stone’s good name in the media after he also had a client who walked from what should have been a slam dunk rape case that went south because of unreliable DNA evidence just before he also shot himself. This is a clear pattern.”
“You’re not the only Google hot-shot around here, Jack,” Casey matched me with her intensity as she pulled up a document of interest. “So, it would seem that Anthony Waltz is… you guessed it—also a member of the lawyer All-Stars who have a long history of getting scumbags off. Earlier this year, he had a case with a woman accused of child neglect who watched while her boyfriend abused her young daughter. She took a conditional plea and then a new witness seemed to magically appear from nowhere, placing her across town at the time of the incidents. And who do you think probably wouldn’t send Waltz a Facebook Friend Request even if he was alive? Jonathon DiMarco. Looks like the man had some downright hateful stuff to say about him in the news, even after his death. Here’s a quote, ‘Scum of the earth, hands so dirty he’d never get them clean, waste of Chicago air.’ You know, DiMarco’s name keeps popping up. Maybe I was onto something and I’m smarter than I look?”
“Now, let’s not go making too many crazy allegations. There’s no evidence to confirm yet that you’re actually smart.” I smiled. “However, we’ve just found both the starting point for this case, and maybe our first potential suspect. Grab your stuff. We’re off to play hero.”
I stood up, grabbing my leather jacket off the back of the chair, and my Smith and Wesson from my top desk drawer.
It was time for action.
Chapter 4
We drove into the exclusive suburb of Highland Park, passing the turn-off to the famous home of basketball legend Michael Jordan, with my truck rumbling loud enough to turn the heads of those walking their dogs through the neighborhood streets.
Twenty-five miles north of the Chicago Loop, Highland Park was nestled along the beautiful edges of Lake Michigan, in the heart of the North Shore. Off the Interstate 94, the suburb had an abundance of established trees overhanging wide sidewalks, manicured green spaces, and roads smooth enough to slide on. Rows of neat, large homes that housed grandchildren on the weekends, and seemed to promise fresh lemonade and tire swings in the backyard, blurred into each other as the long streets stretched out.
“Is this the place?” I asked as I pulled up in front of two large iron-clad gates.
“This is it, but why even have massive gates if you’re just going to leave them open?” Casey frowned as we turned into the long driveway to Jonathon DiMarco’s house.
The gravel crunched under the tires as my truck hummed further up the drive. The home was tucked off the main street, nestled next to a wooded enclave. When I came to the end of the long driveway, I parked next to a new Range Rover, spotless and clean.
Casey and I stepped out of the truck, gazing up at the large house in front of us. It was perfect enough to be featured in a real estate magazine. Not a thing looked out of place on the two-story mansion. Just one block from the lake, the architecturally designed home sat on a sweeping acre of grassy lawns, with extensive views of the ravine nearby. The entrance was stately, and elegant, with two large pillars framing an impressive door.
“How does a former police captain afford this?” Casey whispered. “I’m guessing it has five bedrooms, maybe six, and the same number of bathrooms.”
“Investments. Struck it rich because he invested in a property development firm. It was his nephew’s business, and DiMarco put up the initial investment. The business exploded and DiMarco sold his share for millions. Rumor is that a lot of the approvals were due to bribes,” I said, walking around the truck and joining Casey who was already climbing the front steps. “No one has ever been able to prove anything, but it was all too coincidental. City officials changed their tune overnight on some residential developments.”
“How does a person even get away with that sort of thing?”
“It’s just like the old saying—It’s not what you know, it’s who you can bribe.” I walked up the five steps to the front entrance and pressed a buzzer. It wasn’t long before the intercom came crackling to life.
“Appointment time and business?” a woman’s voice asked.
“We’d like to talk to Mr. DiMarco,” I called back.
I cracked my neck as I awaited a reply. Casey looked back out at the garden as the late afternoon sun started to dip behind the tall trees. The lawn looked like it was taken from the fairways of Augusta and the rows of flowers made it look like they’d borrowed one of the green-keepers as well. There were lines of blossoming flowers of different colors in perfect arrangement and a pathway of bushes that were neatly trimmed within an inch of their lives.
“I’m sorry, Mr. DiMarco is tied up.” The voice didn’t sound in the least bit sorry, and I exhaled loudly. “
Please contact Mr. DiMarco’s office during business hours to arrange a meeting.”
“There’s been a death and we believe Jonathon DiMarco would very much like to take the time to speak with us now. In fact, I have a feeling that talking about defense lawyers, especially dead ones, may be one of Mr. DiMarco’s favorite topics.” There was no warmth to my voice, no jokes or sarcasm, just pure exasperation.
At the other end there was a loud thump and then a squeal of metal before a deep male voice interrupted through the intercom. “Please wait one moment.”
I moved back to the top step with Casey, turning around and surveying the garden. With a loud crack, the door was thrown open and Jonathon DiMarco stepped out, as though onto a stage, throwing his arms wide.
He was in his mid-sixties but looked like he had the energy of someone in their twenties. He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, without a tie, clean shaven, and his salt and pepper hair was neatly combed back. He was a former police captain in the Chicago Police Department, and he held himself with strength and excellence. He had broad shoulders that looked like he spent his weekends chopping firewood with an axe, and skin that looked like he’d spent one too many holidays in the Florida sun.
“What a day it is to receive a visit from Chicago’s Finest. Welcome. I always open my home to my brothers and sisters who protect our city from the evils of the world.” He leaned forward and paused for dramatic effect, before straightening himself and continuing. “I don’t think we’ve met before, so please show me your identification. You can never be too careful these days.”
The theatrics of his greeting didn’t shift my focus for an instant.
“I didn’t say we were police. My name is Jack Valentine, and this is Casey May. We’re private investigators looking into the death of Anthony Waltz. I believe you knew him.”
DiMarco stopped, dropped his arms and raised his eyebrows at me. “You’ve caught my interest. I heard about Waltz this morning. He offed himself, right?” DiMarco glanced briefly at me, unperturbed by the serious nature of the introduction, and then moved his eyes to Casey, taking his time to appraise her fully. She tried to hide her disgust directed at the man twice her age and crossed her arms across her body.
“Oh sweetheart, there’s absolutely nothing you should be hiding. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, but you look so much like my ex-wife. I forget how many wives ago, in fact. Maybe she was number two. Stunning woman, she was, but nasty. She was as mean as a rattlesnake. It made for a great combination until she tried to stab me with a fire poker. I guess we’ve all been there.” He laughed at himself, one hand on his chest, the other held wide. “Now, come in and tell me why you’re investigating this death.”
He turned and led us into the house. Inside there was a cozy warmth, beautifully renovated rooms that had depth and vibrancy with hand selected furnishings in woods and leather. The walls were covered in rich wood paneling and the floorboards gleamed with polish. Prints in seasonal colors added a feeling of comfort without dominating the scene.
“Nice place,” Casey complimented DiMarco, choosing to move past the awkwardness of their first encounter. If she held a grudge with every suspect that treated her like a Barbie doll, she’d never get anywhere.
“Come through to the living room. I love to chat about dead lawyers, but first you must answer a question—who hired you and why?”
His good manners and elevated mood were forced. There was something just beneath the surface that was cold and menacing and it lodged a sense of wariness in my chest.
“A friend of Anthony’s asked us to look into his death. We’re just covering all the bases,” Casey said as we entered a cavernous room, one side completely lined with book shelves. DiMarco indicated to a brown couch in front of an old fireplace, lit and radiating heat into the large space.
“A friend? I doubt that. Anthony Waltz didn’t have any friends. I’d suggest the person who’s paying you is doing so out of self-interest. Perhaps they’re looking to cover their own tracks?”
“Do you know anyone that would do that?” I sat down.
“Could be any one of those scumbag lawyers. And there’s absolutely no point in us pretending that I don’t have an issue with the legal system in our city. Of course, I do, I make no bones about how I feel. And yes, I do believe that defense lawyers are at the very guts of the issue.” As we sat down, his wife appeared in the doorway. “This is my wife, Daisy.”
“Coffee?” She asked.
“Of course.” DiMarco smiled. His wife turned and walked away, leaving her husband to business.
“What is it exactly that you find so corrupt in our legal system?” I humored him, eyes honing in on DiMarco.
“In my day, when I was a police captain, a criminal was brought to justice in the proper way. A fair trial. Every time. Money was not an issue; time was not an issue. The only thing that actually mattered was justice. These days it comes down to whoever is the cleverest in the courtroom, and that means whoever is paying the most. The system is broken and it’s the defense lawyers that are to blame. They’re greedy money-makers, not defenders of the system. It’s like a race, who can have the thickest resume, the biggest bank accounts, and the fastest cars. And the worst part is that they’re getting away with it. The State’s Attorney’s office seems only too happy to fly through this crime and that crime and make ludicrous decisions about saving the taxpayers money without really consulting those that are paying the taxes. But that’s a dishonest foundation to build any legal system upon.” For a moment his sunshine and smile facade slipped and there was an anger to his words.
His wife walked back into the room with a tray.
“Thank you, Beautiful.” DiMarco smiled again. She placed a loving hand on his shoulder and then walked away.
“So, you’re talking about people abusing the system, right?” I awkwardly accepted the tiny cup in my large bear-paw hands, as though receiving a drink at a 6-year-old’s tea party.
“Exactly.” DiMarco clapped his hands. “Karma has to come to these defense lawyers. They’re the ones letting rapists back on the street. Why the hell should we let someone’s wealth determine if they get off or not? If they did it, then put them away. Throw away the key for the rest of their life.” DiMarco leaned back in his chair, satisfied with his audience and the unwinding of his story. “But these defense lawyers duel on words, not principles. They find a loophole, an ambiguity in the law, and exploit it. It’s money that wins cases, and that’s not justice. It’s corrupt. All of it. Lady Justice and her scales have the right to judge us all, regardless of wealth.”
“So, you think that everybody charged should be found guilty?” I sipped on the coffee.
“Of course not. The police make mistakes. Detectives make mistakes. The FBI makes mistakes. Everybody makes mistakes. The system, as it stands, is robust if people are sworn to protect it. The problem is that we have people in the system, defense lawyers, who exploit its weaknesses. They exploit the system, and without their dedication to their oath, the system falls apart. It’s now my life’s work to correct that.”
“So let me get this straight,” Casey’s eyes narrowed. “You feel like, out of all the lawyers, judges and other legal professionals around, your views hold more weight about what’s best for our city? What makes you such an expert on this?”
“Good question, young lady.”
“Mr. DiMarco, let’s call her Casey,” I slipped in before Casey exploded.
“My apologies.” He smiled. “What makes me such an expert? Well, let me tell you. I’ve been there. I’ve been that person. Years ago. I had a good lawyer, one of the best, and I walked away free, even though I’d admitted my guilt to my colleagues. The defense lawyer walked me out of that court on a technicality.”
Casey’s eyes met mine across the room and we both looked questioningly at each other. This was news to us; nothing had come through on DiMarco when we’d Googled his name on the drive to his house.
&nb
sp; DiMarco stood and wandered towards the fireplace, his back to us. Above the mantel piece hung the head of a deer, its marble eyes glazed and lifeless. A tension seemed to sit heavy in the room as the fire crackled.
“Do you like hunting?” he asked, suddenly spinning around, the accommodating smile back on his face.
“Hang on,” I stood up also, “wait a minute, let’s go back a step.”
“I understand that you have questions.” DiMarco shook his head slowly, “But it turns out I’m not on trial here. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t particularly feel like a walk down memory lane whenever it serves you best. Come, walk with me.”
He took off in long strides to the hall and took a sharp right. Casey and I, confused by the sudden change in DiMarco’s approach, placed our coffee mugs down and hurried to catch up with him at the top of the basement stairs where, after struggling with the key and an old lock, he flung open the door and reached in for a swinging piece of rope, pulling it down to fill the room with light.
“It’s important for a man to feel both that he has a purpose to help keep mankind balanced, but that he’s also the king of the animal world and has a right to power in his dominion. It brings out the best in a man when he understands the delicate equilibrium of his universe, that in a moment, a second, an instant, he can lose it all. But in that same moment, that same instant, he can also control it all. I like to keep myself humble with these thoughts.”
He led us down into the basement. Casey coughed and she reached to her holster, unclipping it and getting ready. There was a sticky heaviness in the basement, and it took a moment before I realized what I was looking at on the walls.
“This? This is what keeps you ‘humble’?” I asked, not trying to keep the surprise from my voice.
Casey automatically reached up and held her hand under her nose to attempt to dispel the smell of the pure alcohol and… something else. Something earthy and rotting. DiMarco watched us both, licking his lips in anticipation of our reaction to his shrine.
The Shooter Page 3
