Windy City Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  “Maybe Gigi found out it was Jack who helped Marta find Lada. That would’ve made him pretty angry.”

  “Are you saying Gigi killed Jack because he gave Lada’s number to Marta?”

  “There’s more I have to tell you.”

  “Where’s Lada now? Ask Marta to get in touch with her.”

  The look on my face must have given it away. Tamar’s expression didn’t change when I said, “Lada’s dead.”

  Neither of us spoke for several minutes. Then Tamar said, “Because of Jack, they killed her? They’re both dead because of their relationship?”

  “It’s not that simple. Marta gave me a pile of love letters written to Lada. They’re not signed but I’m pretty certain Konigson wrote them. That’s pretty damning evidence for someone to get their hands on. You should also remember that the Department of Revenue is laundering the prostitution cash.”

  I could tell Tamar struggled to get her head around all the information. “Elon and Konigson. They would have people killed—as a precaution? Just in case?”

  “I think when Elon found out Jack was also in love with Lada, he told Konigson and they panicked. Fearing the possibility of being exposed as part of a prostitution ring. A scandal like that would bring their worlds crashing down.”

  Tamar buried her face in her hands. “I’ve been doing some investigating of my own,” she said then looked up at me. “Gigi keeps a weekly appointment book on his desk. I’ve been looking through it during my night shifts, all the way back to January. One day every couple of months he writes, 10 saat’amde, ts’omi ch’amova, 24.” Tamar leaned back in her chair and stared at me.

  “You’re going to tell me what that means, right?”

  “Ten P.M., dough arrives. Twenty-four.”

  She didn’t need to elaborate. “Code for something else arriving.”

  “All our record keeping is done on bakery software I talked Gigi into buying. He doesn’t want anything to do with the computer so he either gives me a copy of the orders and I enter them, or I do the ordering myself and enter them.”

  She waited for me to draw her conclusion. “None of these late evening dough orders coincided with anything you entered.”

  “I’ve racked my brain trying to figure out a logical explanation.” Tamar shook her head. “But it’s no use.”

  “Have we already missed this month’s special delivery?”

  “Saturday, ten P.M.”

  “Saturday? As in the day after tomorrow?”

  Tamar nodded.

  “We’ve got to figure out this IIPD mystery. An Internet search only comes up with International Institutes of P-something and Development. Professional Development, Property Development, Psychosocial Development.”

  “Elon,” Tamar said. “You know what he currently looks like?”

  I detected a sprinkling of annoyance in her voice. “Uh, no. Not yet. He’s hard to pin down.” I could’ve asked Robertson what Elon looked like, if I had understood the importance.

  “What about Konigson?”

  “Old, short, bearded, fat. Why? You think you might know these guys from somewhere?” I was half joking.

  Tamar looked as though she wanted to say something but stopped herself. “I have the name Konigson to hate, to wish would burn to death. I want to know the face belonging to that name.”

  The depth of her words impressed me. The buried fury in her voice worried me.

  45

  Tamar wanted some time alone, but we agreed to talk again later. She smiled warmly as I stood to leave. During the drive home, Kalijero called. “Where are you headed?” His businesslike demeanor sounded weird. “I’ll be waiting in front of your apartment,” Kalijero said. “Just stay calm, don’t overreact.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We’re just gonna talk, but you gotta be cool.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I parked my car and crossed the street in front of my building, where Kalijero waited.

  “Walk with me,” he said and we started down the sidewalk.

  “Listen. We’ve figured out some prostitutes are being smuggled in Saturday night. Do you know what IIPD stands for? Something about immigration maybe?”

  “I don’t know. But you listen. Video surveillance caught Jones’s murder.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “So they know I was just talking to him.”

  “Somebody called the crime hotline, left detailed instructions, and mentioned your name.”

  “So they saw me talking to Jones and then his head exploded. That should prove I didn’t kill him.”

  “You waited before reporting the murder. To a cop, that means you’re hiding something. Who took your report when you went back to the crime scene?”

  “Horowitz.”

  Kalijero frowned. “Did you piss him off?”

  “He pissed me off.”

  “When’re you gonna learn? Guys like you don’t get respect from cops. Especially if your name is Landau. You be a smart ass and guys like Horowitz go out of their way to fuck with you. He’s probably gonna try for an accessory charge.”

  “Accessory to what? Murder? That’s insane! You’re telling me the state’s attorney will go for that bullshit?”

  Kalijero laughed. “They’ve got to keep all those lawyers busy. Okay, just be cool. You’ve got to follow through a little bit, play the game.” Two police cruisers pulled up.

  “No way! You’re arresting me?”

  “We’ve got no choice! But you can’t freak out; that’ll only hurt you. Play the game, Landau. Let them book you, get a lawyer, make your bail, and straighten this shit out.”

  One of the cops asked me to put my hands behind my head. Then he patted me down, relieved me of my Glock, and read me my rights. I glanced at Kalijero; he nodded approvingly.

  —

  Handcuffed in the police cruiser, wrists bent queerly behind my back, periodic spasms of pain shooting out my shoulders, it occurred to me that bail for a crime of this nature could far exceed my liquid assets. I thought of my father being led away at the conclusion of a sting operation Kalijero had engineered. Perhaps we would one day look back upon this day and laugh at the irony. At that moment, however, I promised both my father and Frownie that if Kalijero didn’t help me through this mess, he would be my sworn enemy—whatever that meant.

  I was taken to the local precinct where I was allowed to call Palmer and leave a message explaining why I needed a lawyer. An hour later, after fingerprints and mug shots, I was on my way to a holding pen in anticipation of sharing a confined space with men deficient in the basic skills of sanitation and manners. I knew enough to keep my mouth shut, not try to make friends, and to stand as far away from the toilet as possible. From the time they slapped the cuffs on me, I had mentally prepared myself to spend at least one night in the hole, since setting an arraignment could take two days. Kalijero showed up after three hours, having secured an interrogation room to question me.

  “We got a bond hearing set for tomorrow morning,” Kalijero said. He didn’t look as pleased with himself as I thought he would. “The DA will try to paint you as a flight risk so they can get a hefty bond.”

  “More than ten thousand?”

  Kalijero frowned. “We’re talking about murder. Apparently, the police had been trying to recruit the deceased as a possible informant. Whoever set you up knew what they were doing.”

  “You know I can prove I was investigating a murder, for fuck’s sake!”

  “This is why I’m telling you to stay cool. Get a lawyer, plea it down or maybe get it thrown out.” Kalijero walked with me back to the holding pen. He looked genuinely sad.

  “Jimmy, try to figure out what IIPD might mean. We can bust this wide open!”

  “For fuck’s sake, Landau! Focus on getting out of here first!” Kalijero held his hands up like he wanted to choke me, then turned and walked away.

  Thoughts of spending a night in jail covered a span of emotions ranging from despair to a stu
pid kind of pride in experiencing a special rite of passage—as if by the next morning I could brag I had seen the shit and got through it! But some rituals could be quite unpleasant and would require many years before they could be looked back upon with nostalgic self-admiration. In the end, I knew I could never pull off that kind of bravado and would just be a white boy from the North Shore looking like a fool trying to embrace a cliché.

  —

  Palmer’s lawyer was Judd Harris, a sharply dressed man of sixty who showed up at eight the next morning, cheerful and confident, but also in a hurry. He asked how I was and pretended to care that I had spent the night sitting on a wood bench occasionally dozing off, only to be awakened by fear of armed robbers, burglars, car thieves, and the moron guard who enjoyed dragging his billy club across the bars every few hours.

  “First thing, call me Judd. Second thing, this man who died, he was your star witness and you wouldn’t kill your star witness, because this is all a big misunderstanding.” Judd glanced at his watch and said he would see me at the courthouse. I asked him about the bail amount; he nodded as if I had commented on Chicago’s lousy weather and left. A short time later I was herded onto a sheriff’s bus that would take me to the immense Cook County jail at 26th and California, but not before making several stops at other police stations to pick up more customers.

  Along with eighty others, I was given a number and put in a holding cell to await my turn in bond court. It was then, while standing shoulder to shoulder in a crowd of prisoners, that I considered the cold-bloodedness of a guy like Detective Horowitz, someone who would deposit an innocent person like me into a dehumanizing penal system just because he didn’t like me. About two hours later, my name was called.

  The DA could not have been more than two weeks out of law school. I had participated in setting up Jones by luring him to the alley—where Jones thought he could buy cocaine—then witnessed his murder and did not immediately report it. A fifty-thousand-dollar bail would be necessary.

  “Your Honor,” Judd replied and passionately outlined the absurdity of the case, pointing out I was a licensed private investigator talking to a star witness, nothing in the video indicated illegal activity taking place, and my delay in reporting the crime was due to being in a state of shock, having just been showered with the victim’s blood and brain matter.

  The judge had no comment except to set bail at twenty-five thousand—cash only—and call the next case. The whole process took about fifty seconds.

  Outside the courtroom, Judd did not appear too concerned. “Don’t worry; it’s just a scare tactic. We’ll get this thrown out—and Mr. Palmer can get the cash here by tomorrow morning.”

  “You mean I gotta stay in this shithole until tomorrow?”

  Judd looked at his watch. “I have to go,” he said. He was in a hurry.

  —

  The idea of asking Izzy for a favor was not quite as distasteful as spending another night in the lockup. I visualized only his disapproving smirk while leaving a message asking for twenty-five thousand in cash, and as the morning wore on, the smirk became more and more disgusted with me until my jailer informed me I had a visitor and led me to a cafeteria-like room where Ellis Knight waited.

  “Hey, fish! You someone’s punk? You get the raw dog yet?” His glee bordered on delirium.

  “You here to help me or torture me?”

  “No worries; everything’s aight.” He took a cashier’s check out of his pocket. “See, bro? I got your bank, but I gotta break it all down before I deliver the cheddar.”

  Already sleep-deprived and hungry, I couldn’t handle the added frustration. I lowered my torso onto the cafeteria table, rested my head on my folded arms, and closed my eyes. Such unforeseen behavior had the desired effect.

  “Yo, dude. Hear me out.”

  “What do you want, Ellis?”

  “We’re making a deal here. Just fill me in on the stiff in the alley, and I’ll post your bail.”

  “Deal,” I said and gave Ellis a verbal outline, aware that general references to a life starting in parking enforcement and ending as a stooge running errands for an unnamed cabal of corrupt city officials and powerful corporatists would be all Ellis needed to create a sensational story of tabloid truth.

  46

  “Home,” that sentimental image of a welcoming refuge from an indifferent world, ceased being an abstract concept when I entered my apartment. After devouring a plate of hearts and livers, Punim joined me on the couch, nesting in my lap as I left a message informing Palmer I had been sprung. A few minutes later, he stepped out of a budget meeting to call me back to apologize for his money not being more “liquid.”

  “And don’t worry about this accessory nonsense,” he said before hanging up.

  I closed my eyes, wondering if I had the ability to stop worrying based on someone else’s decision to tell me so. This would be my last conscious thought until three hours later when I opened my eyes thinking if Saturday night passed before I could figure out IIPD, all wouldn’t be lost. A confrontation with Elon would be only delayed. Although the good fortune of so easily gaining access to Konigson still skirted the boundary of suspicion, I worried more about finding a way into Elon’s world. Then it occurred to me that one world just might lead to the other.

  —

  “Hang on, don’t push the terrorist-alert button,” I said to Konigson’s receptionist at Vector Solutions. She gave me an expression I could describe only as homicidal. “Remember tossing me out of here a few days ago?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m Jules Landau. Tell Mr. Konigson I have pressing information about Jones.”

  “He’s out of the office.”

  “Why do you hate me so much? Can you just tell me when Mr. Konigson will be back in the office?”

  Reluctantly, she checked an appointment calendar and said, “In about an hour.”

  I thanked her and headed across the street.

  Maybe it was the dreary weather, but the lobby of city hall seemed more blatantly kitschy than I remembered. The elevator let me off at the basement, and I walked the corridor trying to remember which of the unmarked doors belonged to parking. When I passed the archivist’s office and saw the same man on his knees sorting through boxes, I gambled on a door just around the bend and won. Except for Robertson sitting behind his desk in the glass-walled enclosure, the office appeared empty.

  “Knock-knock.” Robertson looked up. “You are the man!” I said. “Thanks for helping me find Jones.”

  Robertson smiled tentatively. “Oh, yeah? Things worked out? He give you some good info?” I had a feeling Robertson knew I was being set up, but didn’t know Jones was going to get blown away. A blatant lack of respect from his superiors, I thought.

  “He did!” I said and walked to the side of his desk but stayed far enough away to provoke Robertson to stand in order to shake my extended hand.

  “Maybe things might work out for me if something bad happens? You know? Like you’ll help me out a little?” His grasp was firm, like that of a trusting hand thankful for a friend.

  “Unfortunately, Jones can’t be much help now that he’s dead.” I yanked Robertson hard into my raised knee, dropping him to the floor. It was the kind of cheap shot a skinny white boy playing detective could not be afraid to use if he ever wanted respect. But just as I felt a tinge of guilt watching his distress, he gasped the word “cocksucker,” reached blindly with one hand to open a desk drawer, and began feeling around for a set of brass knuckles just beyond his fingers. I took the groping hand and bent it back in a maneuver that put Robertson flat on his stomach.

  “Who told you Jones would be in that alley? Was the bullet meant for Jones or me?”

  Robertson cried out in pain. “You’re breaking my wrist!”

  “Four dead people, one broken wrist. Is that a fair trade?”

  “I just got a note telling me what to do.”

  I let up a bit. “You told Elon I was looking
for Jones, didn’t you?”

  “No! Elon’s not involved with guys like me. A kid comes down and gives me a note.”

  “And the note said to tell me Jones was in that alley?”

  “Yeah, yeah, it was a setup. But I didn’t know they was gonna kill him. C’mon, let me up.”

  “Who the hell is your boss?”

  “I don’t know. Everybody. It’s a bureaucracy, all done with email or notes. I do what I’m told. There must be a couple dozen hacks between me and guys like Elon.”

  “That way he keeps a lot of white space between the headless corpse and himself.”

  “For fuck’s sake, let me up!”

  I pushed Robertson’s hand against my holstered gun. “Feel that? That’s my backup gun. A lousy .38 revolver. Because I’m out on bail, the cops kept my beloved Glock. My license to carry a gun is suspended. Can you imagine investigating murder in Chicago but not being able to legally carry a gun? That really pisses me off, and I’m blaming you!”

  I unbent his hand and backed away. Robertson got to his knees, rubbed his wrist awhile, then climbed into his chair. He looked pathetic.

  Robertson said, “Even I know what a big-city machine is about. The money flows up to the top through dopes like me.”

  I said, “How long are you going to stay aboard this sinking ship? You’re now an accessory to a murder.”

  “I swear I didn’t know—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you knew! If I go to trial, you think I’m going to take the rap for you? I’ve already given your name to the cops. It’s over; you’re done.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  I put another card on his desk. “Keep this one in your wallet. You’re a double agent now. I need evidence linking Elon with Gelashvili’s and Jones’s murders. I don’t care how many people are between you and that note. When it all unravels, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  I turned to leave, then stopped. “Hey. Do they still use tugboats around here?”

  Robertson struggled a few moments with the non sequitur. “Well, in the river you see ’em pushing barges. And I seen them in the harbors sometimes.”