Max Coolidge was slowly cruising eastbound on Grand Avenue in St. Paul. A beautiful, sunny, summer day, he was driving his summer car; a 1969 black Pontiac GTO, a Motorhead’s wet dream that Max had picked up for a song ten years ago. The classic car was in rough shape at the time having been in the backyard of a Latino drug dealer for years. The cops had confiscated it as the fruit of a criminal enterprise and Max, with department cooperation, got it as soon as it became available. An ex-con Max knew with a gift for cars, which is why he had done time, did the work to refurbish the car and turned it back into a thing of beauty.
It was mid-afternoon a few days after the hearing to exhume Bill Sutherland. Ever since then Max had been in a foul mood. Something about the Sutherlands and this entire affair still nagged at him. An itch he could not scratch.
Max was looking for a snitch that was supposed to be on a street corner three blocks back and twenty minutes ago. Max had grown tired of waiting for him and his irritation was growing, he was now driving down the busy avenue booking for the skel.
Stuck at a light on Victoria behind two cars Max looked down the street and saw the young man a block away turn south on a side street. Really irritated knowing his snitch was deliberately avoiding him, the instant the light turned green he slammed his right hand down on the horn. The driver ahead of him, a man, looked in his mirror and flipped him off; the gesture adding fuel to his anger.
Instead of chasing down Grand, Max made a quick right on Victoria, pushed the accelerator to the floor and the 400 cubic inch engine roared. Barely two seconds later he was at the next corner braking and spinning to his left.
Unnoticed by Max, a St. Paul patrol car was behind him on Grand and the cops saw him take off. Not knowing who was driving the classic muscle car, they decided to follow him. The two cops in the squad car turned on Victoria just in time to see Max squeal around the corner a block away. The rack of lights on the roof went on and the patrol cops went after him.
Max flew down the street to the next corner and whipped into another left to make that turn. As soon as he did, he saw his junkie snitch slowly coming up the sidewalk on his right walking toward him. Less than ten feet before the man got to the alley dividing the block, Max screeched to a stop, half in and half out of the alley’s entrance. The car had not stopped rocking before Max was out of it and on top of his quarry.
“Come here you little asshole!” Max yelled, his eyes almost shooting flames.
“Hey, Max, dude. I was just looking for you.”
His foul mood, the chase, the adrenaline and the lie sent Max, normally a very calm, controlled person, over the edge.
“Marvin you son-of-a-bitch, don’t you lie to me!” Max practically screamed. He grabbed the scrawny, street hustler and then really lost it. Max slapped him once, twice, three times then threw him on the sidewalk and stood over him.
As Max was grabbing Marvin by the front of his shirt, the patrol car slid to a stop behind his Pontiac. The two cops jumped out leaving their doors open and ran toward Max pulling their night sticks. One of the cops, an older black sergeant, recognized Coolidge as he ran toward him.
“When I tell you to be somewhere, you be there!” Max yelled down at the terrified Marvin.
“Jesus Christ, Coolidge,” the sergeant said as he held up a hand to stop his partner. He grabbed Max by the arm and spun him around. When he did this, Max looked at the cop with a confused expression then back at his snitch still lying on the sidewalk.
“What are you doing? What the hell happened here?”
“Hey, uh, Cleveland,” Max quietly said to the cop. “I ah, ah. Sorry,” he said looking down at Marvin. “Jesus Marvin, I’m really sorry,” he continued as he reached down to help him up.
“Are you okay?” the sergeant asked Marvin.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. No problem.”
“Do you want to press charges against Detective Coolidge?” Cleveland asked.
Marvin silently shook his head and said, “No, no. For what? No, it’s all good.”
“Sarge,” his younger white partner said. “We got a bigger problem.”
“What?” Cleveland asked.
“Across the street,” the cop said tilting his head in that direction.
Cleveland looked where his partner indicated, saw what he meant and said, “Oh, shit, I hate those goddamn phones.”
Standing across the street were two boys in their late teens. Both were watching the scene and each was holding a smartphone filming the entire episode. What they saw and filmed made it obvious that the patrol cops knew that Max would be identified later by whichever TV station paid the most to the two teens who sold them the film.
“Let me try to talk to them,” Cleveland said. As soon as he started across the street walking toward the boys, they bolted and ran. With the thirty extra pounds Cleveland had accumulated around his waist, there was no way he would catch these two sprinters.
An hour later Max was at his desk waiting for the summons from his captain. He could see into the captain’s office and Roy Cleveland was in there telling McCarthy what happened.
“Max,” he heard McCarthy’s voice boom across the room.
Coolidge raised his right hand to indicate he heard the captain as he pushed his chair back. He made his way through the squad room while McCarthy patiently waited for him at his door.
When he entered the office he looked at Cleveland, smiled slightly as Cleveland said, “Sorry, man. I had…”
“Don’t worry about it, Roy. I did it, I own it, and I’ll take it. You had no choice and we’re cool.”
The two men shook hands and Cleveland closed the door as he left.
“Sit down, Max,” McCarthy calmly said indicating a chair in front of his desk.
“I’m really sorry, Dave,” Coolidge started. “For the life of me, I don’t know what came over me. I just lost control; no excuses.”
“You’ve been going around here snapping and growling at everybody for two weeks. What’s up?”
Coolidge didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned his head to his left and stared out the window thinking about the question.
“It’s this Sutherland thing,” he said looking back at his boss. “I’m having a little trouble letting it go, I guess.”
“That’s not like you,” McCarthy said.
“I know,” Coolidge nodded his head. “I guess it’s because I’m not sure I’d be here today if it wasn’t for that family. My life could’ve taken a very different turn.”
“Bullshit,” McCarthy said. “They may have helped you get started but you are where you are because of who you are and nothing else.
“Let me tell you something,” McCarthy continued. “You don’t know dick about that family and you don’t owe them a thing. You know this: what goes on in somebody else’s home is not something you know unless you live it. You may not know this but old man Sutherland was a drunk and a whore chaser. Yeah, that’s right,” he said when he saw the surprised look on Coolidge’s face. “He was connected to politicians downtown and his partying ways got brushed aside plenty. Hell, I caught him with hookers a couple of times myself. So, don’t get all weepy over the Sutherlands. Their ‘Leave it to Beaver’ image was bullshit.”
McCarthy stood up, walked around his desk and took the chair next to Max. In a friendly way, he brushed some unseen lint off of Max’s knee then said, “There’s going to be a shit storm around here for a few days after that film hits the TV.”
“I know, sorry,” Max quietly agreed.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll handle it and it will blow over. You slapped a junkie around. So what? We’ll leak out something to soften the whole thing. But I want you to take a few days off. I got a job I need somebody to do.”
“What?”
“Chicago P.D. is holding Rodrigo Barnes for us. Remember him?”
“Yeah, he’s wanted for that drive-by a few months ago that killed that six-year-old girl over in Frogtown,” Max said. “You want m
e to go get him?”
“Yeah, take a couple days….”
“I’m not a cab driver,” he started to protest.
“You’re not driving there, you’ll fly and this isn’t really a request. Go to Chicago, take a couple days, relax, go to a club or two, hell, do you some good to get laid. I want you out of here for the next couple of days. Understood?”
Max sighed, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Yes, Captain.”
Two years ago Max was involved with a gangbanger drug deal and homicide case that involved the Chicago P.D. The case lasted more than six months and Max became friends with several CPD cops and detectives, two in particular.
They were a salt and pepper pair of homicide detectives named Sean Flaherty and Luther Cole. Flaherty was a forty-eight-year-old with twenty-two years on the force. Cole was thirty-three and had nine years on the job. They called each other, in private only, Klan and Panther. In reality, they were good friends and had the highest clearance rate in the department. Before leaving for Chicago, Max called them, talked to both men and let them know he was coming.
There are flights between Minneapolis/St. Paul and Chicago every day approximately once an hour. Catching a flight to Chicago was nothing. Max strolled up the passenger ramp into O’Hare and saw the two detectives waiting for him in the passenger waiting area. Max had a black leather bag with a shoulder strap slung over his left shoulder. As he approached the two men, each acknowledged him with a slight nod and serious look.
Max shook hands with both then said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen two guys who look more like cops than you two. Did you even have to show TSA your badges to get through security?”
“No wonder they have this guy working intelligence in St. Paul. Nothing gets by him,” Flaherty said to his partner.
Cole smiled and said, “We were wondering, has that place thawed out yet?”
“Almost,” Max replied. “We get our two weeks of summer in August.”
The three of them made the long walk to the main terminal. When they exited the building Max immediately spotted their department-issued car.
“You left your flashers on?” Max asked.
“Gets us great parking and nobody fucks with the car,” Flaherty laughed.
The detectives got in front and Max tossed his bag on the back seat and climbed in after it. As they pulled away from the terminal Max placed his shield up against the window.
“What are you doing?” Flaherty asked from the passenger seat.
“I know it’s extremely rare for a black man to be sitting in the back seat of cop car in this town,” Max said with obvious sarcasm. “I just want people to know you guys are my chauffeurs.”
The three of them made cop banter on the ride to the CPD homicide division. About halfway there, Flaherty turned in his seat to look at Max.
“So, you’re here for the popular Rodrigo Barnes.”
“Yeah, you guys know him?” Max replied.
“Oh, yeah,” Luther chimed in. “Mr. Barnes got his start here.”
“You guys got a good case against him?” Flaherty asked.”
“So I’m told,” Max answered. “I don’t know much about it. Drive by that got a six-year-old little girl killed. Would be nice if these gangbanger assholes would learn how to shoot.”
“You ever meet him?” Luther asked.
“No,” Max admitted.
“He’s a no-doubt-about-it bad ass, Max. I’m surprised they only sent one guy for him,” Flaherty said.
“Why did they send you?” Luther asked.
“My boss thought I needed a vacation,” Max told them.
For the rest of the drive Max told them his story about the Sutherlands. He told them everything with special emphasis on the shooting of Bob Sutherland and the family’s suspicions about the death of the old man, Bill Sutherland.
“So what do you think will come of it?” Luther asked.
“Nothing,” Max answered. “The grand jury refused to indict her for shooting Bob and the court ruled there were no grounds to dig up the old man for a second autopsy.”
“She good looking?” Flaherty asked.
“Who?” Max said.
“The Sutherland woman. The one that shot your friend,” Flaherty said.
“Yeah, actually, she is,” Max said. “Very good looking. Close to beautiful.”
“She married the old man, the kids resent it, she inherits the money and one of them confronts her about it, gets pissed when she tells him to go pound sand, threatens to kill her in her house and she shoots him. Could’ve happened exactly the way she said. Probably no love lost on either side of this deal,” Flaherty said.
“Could be,” Max reluctantly agreed.
A few minutes later, just before they reached their destination, Luther said, “You remember that case we looked at up on the North Side a few years back? The same kind of thing.”
“No, I don’t,” Flaherty said.
“Sure you do,” Luther insisted.
“Okay, fine, you’re right I do. But maybe you can refresh my memory for me,” Flaherty cracked wise.
“See what I have to deal with Max? Early onset Alzheimers. That rich guy, what was his name?” Luther continued. “Cooper, Cartwheel…”
“Cartwright,” Flaherty said.
“Yeah,” Luther said snapping his fingers. “That’s it.”
“I remember now, she was wife number four or five,” Flaherty said. “He was an old drunk, womanizer. Coroner said he was a heart attack waiting to happen. There was no case there.”
“I know, Klan,” Luther said. “I’m just saying it sounds like the same deal. You remember, real good looking younger wife. She gets all the dough and the ex-wives and a couple of kids get squat.”
While Luther parked the car Flaherty said, “They were all a bunch of worthless assholes anyway.” He turned to Max and said, “They made a bunch of accusations but had no evidence. The M.E. ruled it a heart attack.”
“Was an autopsy performed?” Max asked.
The two CPD detectives looked at each other, shrugged and Luther said, “I don’t remember. Probably not. The guy smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. Liked the nose candy a little too much as I remember.”
“Maybe I’ll take a look at it anyway,” Max said. “You guys have case notes?”
“Sure,” Flaherty said. “No charges were filed but the notes would have gone into storage.”
“Plus it was all over the news for at least a couple weeks. There should be plenty about it on the internet,” Luther added.
Max left his bag in the car and the three of them went into the building. Flaherty introduced Max to the desk sergeant who reviewed the extradition paperwork Max had with him.
The sergeant typed on his computer and shortly afterward said, “He’s still at Cook County. When do you want him?”
“How long will it take you to get him?” Max asked.
“Better give us at least a four-hour heads up,” the man answered.
“Okay, will do. Thanks, Sarge,” Max answered.
SEVENTEEN
Sean Flaherty checked with his captain, explained to her why Max wanted their Cartwright file and got her okay to let him see it.
Flaherty retrieved the file from the basement storage area then found a desk for Max to use. Fortunately for Max, the desk came equipped with a PC on it. In less than fifteen minutes, Max was standing at Flaherty’s desk.
“Is this it?” he asked holding up the Cartwright file.
“Yeah,” Flaherty said. “I warned you there wasn’t much in it. Is there an autopsy in it?”
“Yeah, it’s here. Heart attack was the C.O.D.,” Max said. “Why did you get involved in the first place?”
By this time Luther Cole was listening and said, “Rich, white people.”
“Heavy contributors to the Democrats,” Flaherty added. “Plus the grieving relatives were raising hell with the Party demanding an investigation, screaming that the merry widow had murd
ered the old man and robbed them. So, as the old saying goes, ‘shit rolls downhill’ kicked in and it landed on us.”
“We interviewed all of the grief-stricken relatives and it was pretty obvious they were a lot more grief-stricken about the money than the old man,” Luther added.
“I got that from your notes,” Max told him. “Was there a lot of stuff in the media about it?”
“Oh, yeah,” Flaherty nodded. “They even started referring to the wife, what was her name?” he asked Luther.
“Frances,” Max said.
“Right, Frances. Anyway,they starting referring to her as a possible—they always use the word possible— Black Widow,” Flaherty said.
“It didn’t stick, though,” Luther said. “The whole thing lasted maybe two weeks then died down.”
“I heard she moved somewhere. New York or Arizona, I don’t remember.”
“How about Minnesota?” Max asked.
Flaherty looked at Luther, both men shook their heads then Flaherty said, “No, never heard that one.”
“Says here the body was cremated?” Max asked.
“If that’s what it says,” Flahertysaid. “There was nothing there, Max. The old man was a drunk, a womanizer— I love that word — and partier. Lived a fast life and his heart gave out.”
“We did a thorough investigation and didn’t find anything other than broke, bitter ex-wives and a couple of worthless kids,” Luther said, a touch of annoyance in his voice at being questioned.
“I believe you, Luther. I’m just grasping at straws because of the Sutherlands,” Max almost apologized. “Maybe I’ll check online for news stories and see if I can come up with a picture of her.”
“Knock yourself out,” Flaherty said with a smile. “You are joining us for lunch?”
“Since you’re buying, absolutely,” Max replied.
Max sat down at the desk he was using and fired up the computer. There was quite a bit of material about the death of Wendell Cartwright and he read through all of it. The basic story was exactly what the two CPD detectives told him. Cartwright had died of a heart attack after a lifetime of good living. There was even a story that claimed he had inherited one hundred million dollars and had blown sixty of it on fast women, slow horses and unsuccessful marriages.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 193
