Penance jl-1

by Dan O'Shea

“Heading there now. I want my eyes on him when he hears.”

  Slight pause on the other end. “You saying you like him for this? Something pointing at him?”

  “Captain, I don’t have shit right now. What I hear from the priest and a neighbor, this lady’s up for a Nobel Prize. Eddie Marslovak’s the only family left, and he is one of the richest guys in the city. Gotta at least give him a sniff.”

  “Yeah. Well, step easy, OK? Last thing we need is him down our shorts.”

  “Sweetness and light, Captain. Hey, can you lean on the lab for me? The sooner we get ballistics back the better.”

  “Yeah, will do.”

  CHAPTER 2 — CHICAGO

  Eddie Marslovak had a big office. A black leather sofa and love seat sat to the right of the door in front of a bookcase full of expensive looking arty shit. Six-seat conference table off to the left in front of a wall of vanity shots — Marslovak with the mayor, Marslovak with Clinton, a cover of Business Week with his picture on it. There was still plenty of room in the back right corner for a granite-topped desk big enough to land planes on.

  Marslovak looked like he needed the room. He had Gordon Gecko’s haircut and Jabba the Hutt’s body. Behind him, most of the Loop and all of Lake Michigan spread out burnished in the low, slanting gold as the late afternoon sun suddenly broke through the clouds. The view looked like one of the temptations of Christ. Except Christ said no; Marslovak, Lynch was betting, said yes.

  Marslovak had the phone tucked against his shoulder and barely looked up when Lynch came in.

  “You Lynch?”

  Lynch nodded. Marslovak waved the back of his hand at one of his guest chairs, then continued on the phone, banging away at a keyboard while a series of charts flashed across three monitors arrayed along the right side of his desk.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, cutting off whoever was talking to him. “They had their chance to get on board early, now they know they’re fighting for scraps. Suddenly they want the deal they could have had two weeks ago. Fuck ’em. They get asset value — $22.3 million. Otherwise, they can try to hang on after I get another deal in town. Yes or no by the end of the day, counselor.”

  Lynch could hear a raised voice on the other end of the line.

  “I got a four thousand dollar watch, course I know what time it is. It’s 4.30. Day doesn’t end for another seven and a half hours. Find your clients, get me an answer. I don’t hear by midnight, then I’m done. That’s how these rollups go. They misplayed their hand, now they’re sitting at a table they can’t afford. Sorry about that.” He hung up the phone and turned to Lynch in a single motion, his eyes completely focused, like the conversation he just ended hadn’t happened.

  Hard to tell with him sitting down, but Lynch bet Marslovak went two-fifty at least, probably more. Some of it fat, but not all of it. Just a big son of a bitch. Meaty face; mean, close-set eyes; hands like rump roasts. He could buy all the French blue shirts with white collars that he wanted, he was still going to look like the neighborhood, like he should be wearing a butcher’s apron.

  “All right, detective,” said Marslovak. “My receptionist tells me it’s important, but so is most of the other shit I got to do. Get to it, OK?”

  “It’s about your mother, Mr Marslovak,” said Lynch.

  Marslovak froze. “What about my mother?”

  “She’s dead. She was murdered this afternoon.”

  The mean went out of Marslovak’s eyes, all the meaty slabs drooping, his face going from looking fifty to looking seventy all at once. “What do you… Murdered? Why?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Marslovak. I know this must be a shock.”

  Marslovak slumped forward, his face in his hands, almost down to the desktop. His voice was muffled, coming through his palms. “Ah, Jesus, it was the watch, wasn’t it? Finally get her to wear one nice thing, and some punk snuffs her over a goddamn watch.”

  “Mr Marslovak, it doesn’t appear to have been a robbery. She was still wearing her watch and still had her purse when we-”

  Marslovak bolted upright. “You don’t mean raped? Seventy-eight year-old woman?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  Marslovak’s brows knit up. “Where was she?”

  “Coming out of the church. She was shot on the stairs.”

  “Sure, of course.” Marslovak sounding a little pissed off. Marslovak got up. Taller than Lynch had thought, six three, probably more like two hundred and ninety. Marslovak walked over to a tall cabinet next to his pictures, grabbing a heavy highball glass and a bottle of something dark — bourbon, scotch, Lynch couldn’t see the label. Poured a couple of inches, slugged them down, poured some more — half a glass — then dropped into one of the leather chairs surrounding a low glass table, clanking the glass down hard. He just sat for a while, blank.

  “You gonna sit down? What’s your name again?”

  “John Lynch.”

  “Fuck,” Marslovak said. “Just… fuck. Sit down, Lynch, for Christ's sake. And call me Eddie. Everybody calls me Eddie. Cunt with the gossip column who keeps blowing up my marriages calls me Eddie.”

  Lynch took the chair across from Marslovak.

  “What else you need?” Marslovak asked.

  “You and your mom close? She say anything that might help? Anybody she have a problem with?”

  “God, Lynch, I don’t know. Define close. I loved her, her and the old man. They were the perfect parents. It’s just, I’m basically an asshole, OK? I’m not nice. I didn’t learn it at home, don’t really know where I did. And both of them with the religion shit. I don’t buy it. Never have. And couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut about it either. But problems? Her only problem was me.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning she says we’re here on Earth to get to heaven, and here’s her only son, sucking on Mammon’s left tit like God’s own Shop-Vac. Meaning she’s been to mass everyday of her life, taught Sunday school to a couple thousand kids, and the fruit of her womb is a money-grabbing apostate who’s taken every one of the seven deadly sins out on the dance floor for a whirl. Most of them more than once. Most of them I got on speed dial. Meaning that. Know what that’s like, Lynch? Spend your whole life building all this and none of it means shit? I was a disappointment, OK? And I guess I’m not going to change any of that now.”

  “Gotta be rough.”

  “How the fuck would you know?”

  “Yeah. Listen, how was her health, she doing OK?” Lynch giving Marslovak a chance to lie.

  “Like I’d know. Talked to her a couple times a week. She’s sounded a little tired, I guess. But she’s pushing eighty and still trying to play Mother Teresa to the whole northwest side, so she should be tired. I haven’t seen her in person since Christmas Eve. I told you I was an asshole, right? I mean, I should stop by and shit, but that usually doesn’t go real well. Also, I’m trying to stave off divorce number three, and I got the usual couple hundred balls up in the air here.” Marslovak slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head down. “So she’s dead. That’s it. Died thinking I’m going to hell. And in her mind, that pretty much makes her a failure. Wouldn’t have killed me, you know, just turn up at church once in a while, go through the fucking motions. Wouldn’t have killed me.”

  “Listen, Eddie, I know you’ve got things to take care of. Anything else you can think of I should know? She have any money, anything like that? Something somebody might have been after?”

  “With what the market’s done to real estate, if you figure the house, what’s left of the old man’s annuity, insurance, whole estate will go $300,000 to $350,000 tops.”

  “Decent chunk,” said Lynch.

  “Matter of perspective, I suppose. With the market jumping around like Richard Simmons on Dexedrine, my net worth’s moved more than that while we’ve been talking.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “And that net worth is?”

  “Neighborhood of $2.3 billion. Give or t
ake.”

  “Nice neighborhood.”

  “Until you meet the neighbors, yeah. Anyway, the three hundred grand or whatever — it’s all going to the church. My lawyer did the will.”

  “That bother you, with your religious sentiments and all?”

  “Nah. Church will do nice things with it. Feed the hungry, clothe the naked. Long as they don’t go clothing any of my favorite porn stars, what do I care? What am I gonna do with it?”

  “Could there be some connection to your work? Somebody you pissed off coming back at you?”

  “I pissed off pretty much everyone I ever met, Lynch. Some sick fuck got a hard-on for me and shoots my mom? Possible, I guess. Hard to figure. Why not just shoot me?”

  “Like you said, some sick fuck. They take some funny angles sometimes. Anybody come to mind?”

  “I’m the sickest fuck I know, Lynch. Wasn’t me.”

  Lynch pulled out his card and left it on the table. “If you think of anything that might help, give me a call. I’m sorry, Eddie.”

  As Lynch headed to the door, Marslovak sat in his chair staring down into his nearly empty glass. “All your life you’ve got a mother, then you don’t,” Marslovak said, his voice flat. “It’s like God dying. Like there’s nobody left to please.”

  Lynch turned to see Marslovak finish what was in his glass, then set it down on the table. “Get the fuck out, would you please, detective? And close the door behind you.”

  Lynch drove to the station, started the file, called around to crime scene and the lab. Nothing new yet, but Lynch was feeling juiced. This wasn’t another drive-by where they’d haul in one sullen kid or another, it not making much difference whether they had the right one, because whatever kid they hung it on would have been happy to pop whoever had been popped for whatever dumb-ass reason one of the punks would eventually cop to. It wasn’t another obsessive ex who’d beat the one-time love of his life to death and left enough physical evidence behind for ten trials. That’s how Lynch spent most of his time. Piecework. Spending each day wading through a cesspool of human shit.

  It was almost 9.00pm when Lynch got back to his place. He had the top floor on a four-story he’d bought after Katie died. Used the insurance money, leveraged himself to the nipples. Picked the right neighborhood, though — Near North just before it got going. Got a great price because the place was falling apart. But the Lynch family knew tools. Best memories from his childhood were working with the old man. Plaster, plumbing, wiring, whatever. Took Lynch ten years and most of his spare time, but now the place was perfect. Retired cop leased the first floor — bar and sandwich joint, McGinty’s — two units on two, two units on three, Lynch on top. Cash flow better than his salary, the building worth better than a million, even after the crash.

  Lynch had opened up his floor, exposed the brick on the exterior walls, sanded and finished the wide plank floors. He kept a weight set and a treadmill in the back. Lynch did a couple sets each of benches, military presses, curls, squats. Did a quick twenty minutes on the treadmill. Maintenance. It had been a long day, and it was going to be a longer one tomorrow. Lynch figured he’d read for a while and turn in. Just after 10.00 the phone rang.

  “Lynch.”

  “Hey, John. Elizabeth Johnson at the Tribune. How are you?”

  “I was fine. How’d you get this number?”

  “I’m a reporter, John. I’ve got sources.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a cop, Johnson, I’ve got a gun. Look, it’s late. What do you want?”

  “What can you tell me about the Marslovak shooting?”

  “Come on, Johnson. You know we got actual PR guys paid to do this shit. They even got badges and guns and hats, so you can quote them as sergeant this or lieutenant that, just like they were real cops. So call the public affairs pukes, will you?”

  “And I’m sure they will be very helpful, John. I’m sure you’ve filled them in completely. Look, you owe me one.”

  Johnson was new in town. She’d been with some paper in Minneapolis for ten years, and she looked Minnesota. Tall, blonde, Nordic, broad shoulders, long legs. Lynch had talked with her three months before. A couple guys in his division nailed some gangbanger on a series of drug killings, and the asshole’s lawyer tried to muddy the water with some made-up crap about payoffs. Lynch’s name hadn’t been in it yet, but it would have been in time. Lawyer was a media-savvy radical, big on his image as the savior of the oppressed, always quick with the sound bites, the leaks, the dirty tricks. What he really was was a leech attached to the artery of drug money that kept all his underprivileged friends in nine millimeters. The talking heads on the TV had run with the payoff shit, reported the allegations, but Johnson actually checked the facts. Ran a series on the shyster, exposed a mess of scummy trial tactics — blatant race baiting, witness tampering, even a juror who admitted to throwing a case after a series of threats. The lawyer ended up getting his bar card yanked, and the gangbanger ended up getting the full ride — a place in line for the state-sponsored OD. Afterward, Lynch had bought Johnson a drink. Some sparks, but pretty clear they were both fighting that, too.

  “Hey, I said thank you,” said Lynch.

  “John, I was new in town, OK? I should have squeezed you for your marker. But you owe me, and you know it. How about this — we meet for a drink. I buy this time. I tell you what I need, and you decide. That’s fair, right?”

  Lynch thought for a moment. Not about the case, but about Johnson. He’d enjoyed the drink last time. And he’d seen her around, she’d say hi, he’d say hi, him always feeling a little visceral tug. And he’d heard she left Minnesota after a divorce. Besides, growing up in Chicago, he understood the algebra of favors. His old man had moonlighted as political ward muscle for years. What was it he used to say? “Everybody’s gotta scratch a few backs. Otherwise, whole world’s got itchy backs. Nobody’s comfortable.”

  “Yeah, OK,” Lynch said. “You know McGinty’s?”

  “Sure. Half an hour?”

  “OK, yeah.”

  Lynch wondered should he change. After fourteen hours, he figured a shower and a clean shirt, at least. Toweling off, he poked through the closet and saw the sweater his sister had sent for Christmas. Strange-looking roll neck kind of faded purple thing he always thought looked a little candy-assed, but he had to admit his sister knew this kind of shit, so he thought what the hell. Threw it on over a pair of jeans, slid his holster back on his belt.

  Johnson was waiting at the end of the bar when he got downstairs. She’d gotten her hair cut, he noticed, very short now. Long neck. Black turtleneck, tight. Black slacks. She looked like a million bucks in stock options.

  “John,” she said, getting up from her stool. “Thanks. Really.” Big friendly smile. Lots of straight, white Scandinavian teeth. She put out her hand.

  He took it. Big hands, he thought. But his were bigger. He hoped she noticed.

  “You are the only person on the face of the earth that calls me John,” he said.

  “Really? What should I call you?”

  “Most people call me Lynch. There are a couple other options, but you’ll have to buy more than one drink to hear them.”

  She slid her hand up to his elbow and turned him into the dimly-lit brick room toward the high-backed wooden booths along the windows that overlooked the river. “Guess we’d better get a table, then,” she said. “It could be a long night.” Different smile, less teeth, more sly.

  When the waitress came, Lynch ordered a double Woodford Reserve. The waitress’ smile perked up along with her likely tip. Johnson asked for a Chardonnay.

  “You a bourbon connoisseur, Lynch?”

  “Hey, you’re buying.”

  “You’re really going to get your pound of flesh, aren’t you, detective?”

  “Pound?” Lynch said, looking up from under his eyebrows with a slight smile. “I’ll take all the flesh you care to offer.” He watched for her reaction.

  She tilted her head a little, small chuckl
e, then looked back.

  “That’s a very nice sweater, John Lynch.” Another smile. Not so sly this time. That was the smile he was looking for. She took a long sip from her glass.

  “So how’d it go with Eddie Marslovak?” Johnson leaned forward, forearms on the table.

  “Who says I talked to him?”

  “Come on, Lynch. You’re the lead on his mother’s murder. He’s maybe the most powerful man in Chicago. What are you going to do, send him an email?”

  “Yeah, OK. I talked to Eddie. This your technique, Johnson, right for the throat? I don’t get schmoozed?”

  “You want schmooze?”

  “You’re buying the drinks. Sure. Schmooze me.”

  Another smile, a look like he’d surprised her a little, like she was happy about that. “OK, Lynch. Tell me about being the Great White.”

  Lynch’s turn to get rocked back a little. Great White: a nickname from his football days at Boston College. White guy — rare for a DB, maybe not at BC, but at most places — decent speed, played strong safety, and tended to leave blood in the water. Little grin from Lynch. Trying not to look too proud about it, the jock thing being a little silly at his age. Still, though.

  “So who put you onto that, Johnson? That’s going back some.”

  “Every girl wants to meet a football hero. Third round pick, right?”

  “Green Bay, yeah. Blew out my knee in the preseason. That was that. Happened today, signing bonus be enough to retire on.”

  “Happened today, they’d fix your knee. Miss it?”

  “Shit, I’d be long retired by now anyway, Johnson.”

  “But still?”

  “Yeah, OK. I miss it. I liked it. I was good at it. And there is nothing like completely reordering some wideout’s worldview when he tries to go over the middle.”

  Johnson laughed. “So why the cops? Why not coach or do TV or whatever?”

  “Dad was a cop. Genetic inertia, I guess. So what else you got? Gonna grill me on my aborted engagement to Cindy Tremaine back in the third grade?”

  “How about Cabrini, 1984? Want to talk about that?”