by M. K. Gilroy
“I don’t think so.”
Wrong phrasing. You have to tell Dell things very directly and specifically.
“Let me rephrase that, Dell. The answer is no. She doesn’t need to talk to me—and she doesn’t need you talking to me. Might make her feel insecure, even though I’m guessing she is a knockout. You just need to focus on her.”
“She is pretty.”
“I knew she would be. And Dell—congratulations. I wish you the best.”
“Thanks, Kristen. That means a lot to me.”
He starts to say something else but I hit the off button.
I thought you were a Christian.
I have enough feelings of guilt and don’t need that added jab. I pray he’s not talking about me with her.
I’m happy to help people where and how I can. As a cop I am in the service industry—and there’s a reason for that. I’m willing to serve. But even if you say you love the world, it doesn’t mean you are suited or able to help every single individual in every situation does it? I know a lot of people would say yes because they think that’s the right answer. I’m not so sure. And when it comes to someone who has a strange obsession toward you, I don’t think they are really coming to you for help anyway.
Dell’s engaged? I hope he knows what he’s doing. I hope she knows what she’s getting into.
• • •
This is so . . . what? It’s so many things. Bold—sure. Clever—why not? But ultimately so . . . inept. Unbelievable. Hilarious. Cute. Desperate. Exploitable.
So the Chicago police are going to put a plant in Jack’s circle of clowns.
I can’t wait to find out more about her. I had no idea the CPD hired the same kind of talent as Barbara Ferguson.
Those jackals will eat her alive.
I would love to set things up myself, but let’s just let nature take its course on this one.
18
“SO WHAT HAVE I gotten myself into?” I ask Don.
I am eating lunch at the Billy Goat Tavern, a long flight of steps below street level on Michigan Avenue. The Wrigley Building and, across the street, the glorious art deco Tribune Building make this one of Chicago’s grandest architectural crossroads. The NBC building a block closer to the lake isn’t bad either. The Billy Goat is a hole-in-the-wall that didn’t get the memo on grandeur. It does serve great burgers and if you are feeling daring, they’ll put a slice of cheese on for variety.
“Seems to me your love life is about to take off,” Don answers, mayonnaise overflowing to the corners of his overstuffed mouth. Don might be the best dresser in the Chicago Police Department. His silky purple tie is slung back over his shoulder so he doesn’t get food on it. Smart move.
“About time,” he adds, wiping his face with a napkin and taking a big gulp of Diet Coke.
I think he’s lost a few pounds while I was in D.C. Squires is never going to look thin. Too wide in the shoulders. He was a college running back, with the short muscular physique that goes with the position. He claims when he played for Ball State he was 5’11” and 225 pounds. Guys do like to exaggerate their height. I’ve known a lot of six-foot men that were only 5’10” tall. I’m 5’7.” I don’t wear anything more than a half-inch heel, tops, and usually stick to flats. He’s 5’9” if my eyeball test is right.
“Must be nice to get paid to go out on dates,” he says.
He’s going to keep pushing this. I decide to play innocent.
“Right,” I answer with a roll of my eyes. “I’m not real good at dating guys I know. It probably can’t get worse dating strangers. Maybe better.”
“That’s the consensus in the bullpen.”
I wad up the napkin on my plate and throw it at him.
“Hey, watch the shirt,” he says in horror. Don is a sissy when it comes to clothes.
“I’m not the one who uses half a bottle of Heinz,” I say. “And you deserve a ketchup stain for not supporting your partner. We’ve covered this. I don’t want my assignment turned into a joke.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he shrugs dismissively. “I’ve got your back. My wife likes you and has given me strict orders you aren’t to get hurt again while under my watch. She won’t even listen to me when I explain that you make that an impossible task. For one thing, you never listen.”
“Under your watch?”
He smiles and shrugs: “Take it up with Vanessa.”
“So I’m still waiting for your words of wisdom.”
“I can’t remember what we were talking about.”
I sigh. “There is no way in the world I can do undercover on this case.”
“You did okay working Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“Even if that is partially true it can’t be compared to a dating service—a not-so-reputable one at that.”
He smiles at that.
“Don, you promised Vanessa you’d have my back. I’m being serious. I don’t want to get a hard time over this from you or anyone else. I’m taking one for the team on this.”
“I’ll do what I can but there’s already some . . . chatter.”
“Put an end to it.”
“I’ll work on it but . . .”
“But what?”
“There’s already a betting pool on how many dates you’ll last.”
Now I’m getting mad.
“I’m not in it, Kristen. I’ll shut it down.”
“You better or I’m going to Vanessa. And for once, I’m not joking.”
He looks somber at that pronouncement. Don is manly man. He’s a natural leader. In fact, as much as I like Blackshear, Squires should be heading this up. But when it comes to home life, he may be the pater familias, but Vanessa gets her way.
“How’s it going with Bobbie?” he asks.
“Take a wild guess.”
“I’ve met her. I know you too well. Oil and vinegar.”
“Zaworski told me to play ball. So I’m playing as nice as I can with my dating coach.”
“Is that what the Z called her? My momma had another name for ladies in her line of work.”
I roll my eyes. “You were there when Zaworski said no name calling.”
“I don’t think she eats cheeseburgers at the Billy Goat. So since neither she nor the captain are around, I’ll say what I feel. I want to catch Durham’s killer and close this case as much as the captain does. But I think everyone involved with Durham is the scum of the earth. If I need to apologize, I apologize to scum everywhere. These people aren’t right.”
Prostitution is a tricky business—no pun intended. If CPD runs an undercover sting where an officer poses as a call girl, once money is mentioned and agreed to, a bust can be made. However, a sting is considered entrapment if presented in such a way that it would lure somebody into doing something they wouldn’t normally do. Most successful stings are run in settings where there is no question what the customer has come to buy. Or if the sting is designed to get hookers off the street, there will be little question what is being sold.
Bobbie Ferguson is running a service that caters to wealthy men who want someone on their arm in a social setting and then extra benefits later. Jack Durham and nine of his buddies are some of her biggest customers. What a sleazy business.
“So Durham and his rich friends set up their dates through Bobbie,” I say, thinking out loud. “Why don’t they just hit bars and health clubs like normal immoral sleazebags?”
“You know how they say some guys are interested in the hunt and then lose interest when they land the girl they are chasing?”
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Apparently these guys are so jaded they don’t even pretend to like or pursue a woman. They plan a party to hang out with each other—and let Bobbie take care of the eye candy.”
“And these guys are grownups?”
“I would call them adult adolescents, but that wouldn’t be fair to adolescents.”
“Did you know guys like that in college?”
“Heck yes. Our football coach w
ouldn’t let us join a frat for this exact reason. But the football team was a fraternity just the same. Parties and girls. We were the campus stars, so there were plenty of girls.”
“Tell me you weren’t like that.”
“I absolutely—”
Don’s phone vibrates on the table with enough vigor to spill Diet Coke on his plate. He pushes it in my direction to make sure nothing spills on his clothes. My daily garb is obviously expendable.
“Yeah?” he answers, a finger stuck in his free ear as he listens. “Thanks, Shelly. Can you text me the address so I don’t have to put it in my GPS?” A short pause. “We’re on our way.”
“Where we heading?”
“A condo about seven or eight blocks from here. Blackshear wants us to talk to one of Bobbie’s girls. Funny thing is she isn’t in any of Bobbie’s portfolios—and it just so happens she was Jackie-boy’s latest squeeze.”
“I think we need to have a talk with Miz Ferguson on that as well.”
“We do. But first we go meet Penny Martin. She’s been told to sit tight until we arrive.”
“So what’s up with Zaworski?” I ask. “He never even told anyone ahead of time that yesterday was his last day before his leave of absence.”
“Yeah, it’s real hush-hush.”
“So what do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“Any guesses?”
“Gotta be health. But I’ve not been speculating because the boss has been shooting at anything that moves.”
I don’t have any singles and leave a pile of change beside my empty water glass as a token tip. Don looks at that and shakes his head. He leaves two crisp one dollar bills.
Penny Martin lives in an upscale condo half a mile away. We decide to walk. We weave through heavy pedestrian traffic on Michigan Avenue and cut over on Erie. I never got a chance to ask Don to clarify if he was like the other guys on the football team back in his college days. I know he’s a good husband and father. He’s a good cop too. I hope he wasn’t a jerk like Durham and his buddies.
Why is Don giving me a hard time about this assignment? Maybe I will talk to Vanessa.
• • •
Show time. You can do this. Give them nothing. Make them dig for everything.
Not being forthcoming could make you look worse later. But if you play this right, maybe there won’t be a later.
This is business. You have no feelings toward anyone, including Jack. No love. No hate.
Even if he did finally tell you he loved you.
That ship has sailed. Deal with it. Do this and save yourself.
19
“IS THERE A reason we’re talking to you for the first time almost two weeks after Jack Durham was murdered?” Don asks Penny Martin.
“I know nothing about his murder and no one came to talk to me,” she answers demurely.
“But we’ve come to learn you spent a lot of time with the deceased,” Don says. “Did it not cross your mind to approach us?”
“A lot of time is a very relative concept,” she answers. “But if I know nothing, why would I waste your time? I sincerely hope you find whoever murdered him. He was a very nice man.”
That’s a first. I’ve read notes from more than twenty interviews. She’s the first person to have said that. Does that mean something?
Don pauses. This is not starting well. Getting anything from Penny is going to be like pulling teeth. Her disdain for me is palpable. She isn’t going to answer anything I ask. Don’s going to have to carry this interview.
“Do you know anyone who would want Jack Durham dead? Did he have any enemies?” Don asks her.
Looking at the blonde sitting on a white leather sofa across from us, all I can think is double wow. She has her legs tucked beneath her. She is leaning against the armrest, her body slightly turned away from us. Is her position meant to be provocative and highlight her figure or is her body language firmly letting us know we ain’t getting anything from her? I suspect both. She is wearing white slacks and a black top that is tight and low. If it’s meant to distract and fluster Squires, it might be working.
Don is a confident guy but he’s being very formal and doesn’t know what to do with his eyes. I’ll give him a hard time about it later.
“Detective . . .” she says with a long pause.
“Detective Squires,” Don answers.
“Yes, Squires, thank you,” she says. “Well, Detective Squires, since you already know a lot about Jack and his relationships, the better question might be, who wouldn’t want him dead?”
“Tell us what you mean by that,” I interject.
She doesn’t look my direction as she speaks to Don, apparently the only other person in the room.
“I told you Jack was a very nice man. But he didn’t always choose to show that side of him. As I would guess you have already heard from others, he basically had a lot of friends because he had a lot of money. Not because he was always pleasant to be around. But he did know how to throw a fabulous party. So they all showed up.”
“Does that mean you would have liked to see him dead?” Don asks.
She laughs and answers, “Of course not. Maybe because he sensed I accepted him as he was, he treated me differently. But I saw him with others. Jack could be quite mean. I suspect it was a defense mechanism for a low self-esteem, but now I’m speculating and I’m certainly not a psychologist. He seemed to take pleasure in hurting people. So I’m guessing at some level, yes, a lot of people wanted him dead. But enough to kill him? I don’t think so. After all, who would kill someone who invited them to his parties? He would load us in his dad’s jet and fly us to an exotic island where his dad’s yacht would be waiting to ferry us to yet another exotic island or two.”
“So you traveled with him internationally?” I ask.
“Kos, Ios, and Mykonos last month,” she says to Don.
I am obviously not present.
“His dad’s yacht was only one hundred-sixty-feet-long, but sometimes you have to settle for what you can get.”
The way she says it reminds me of Barbara Ferguson saying her condo “will do.” I’m reminded I can never fit in with this crowd.
“Has anything I’ve said helped you find Jack’s killer?” she asks, almost flippantly . . . maybe with a touch of defiance.
Does Penny understand this is a murder investigation? Even if she is losing a ride on the Jack Durham gravy train, she doesn’t seem too upset with Durham’s brutal murder. She is not a suspect—yet—so we do not have to give her any warnings that anything she says can be used against her in a court of law. Once she moves to a person-of-interest status it’s usually time to suggest she consider the counsel of an attorney, even if we aren’t mandated to read her her Miranda Rights yet.
But that’s our dilemma. When to let her talk and when to warn her that what she says matters. If she was ever charged with the murder her defense team would try to have any previous testimony thrown out.
I look at her. She’s all façade. But I somehow don’t think she killed Durham—she doesn’t look like she has what it takes to have beaten his brains in with a Stanley hammer while he lay on his bed asleep or in a drunken stupor. But if she did kill Durham, she wouldn’t be the first murderer to draw attention to him or herself as a ploy to allay suspicion.
“When was the last time you saw him alive?” Don asks.
“I saw him the Sunday before last,” she answers. “The day before he was murdered. He has a private suite at Soldier Field. Strike that. His dad has a private suite at Soldier Field that Jack uses. So probably thirty of us watched the Bears game together.”
“Did he fight with anyone at the game?” Don asks.
“Of course he did,” she answers with a snort. “He always picked fights. Drunk or sober didn’t matter. He probably picked on everyone there.”
“Did you know everyone who was there?” Don asks.
“Not everyone. He always invited fresh meat to his parties. But probably tw
enty or twenty-five were regulars.”
“Fresh meat?” I ask.
“I’m old at twenty-three. Jack likes pretty young things,” she says with a laugh, but maybe a hint of resentment. “I guess I should say Jack liked pretty young things,” she corrects herself.
For the first time a shadow passes across her eyes. She shudders.
“We’re going to need you to make a list of everyone you saw there,” I say.
Randall, Martinez, and Don have caught up with about everyone close to Durham for an initial interview. I have a lousy feeling we are going to have to look at everyone again. We are going to be chasing a yacht-load of arrogant, dismissive, full-of-themselves jerks multiple times before this case is solved.
She finally looks at me and rolls her eyes. She has recognized my existence for which I am sure I should be grateful.
We ask Penny questions for another twenty minutes. If I had a buck for every time she rolled her eyes or looked at her jewel-encrusted watch I might be able to afford a cashmere sweater myself. If I had to give a buck for every time I wanted to knock that haughty smirk off her face, I might not break even. But now I’m being immature—or maybe a little jealous.
We thank her for her time and help. She promises to have her list of Bears’ game attendees faxed to us by Friday. I’m not sure why it’s going to take her all day Thursday to make the list, but arguing with her will be counter-productive.
• • •
“So I’m going to be made available to date guys that date girls like Penny?” I say to Don as we get in our mud brown Chevy Malibu. He was quicker to the parking spot so the keys stay with him. Both of us prefer to drive so our standing rule is first one to the car drives. There’s a reason after partnering two years with me that Don doesn’t hold doors open for me anymore. If we don’t think anyone is watching, we’ve sprinted to get to the car first.
He pulls the shift into reverse and says, “I’ll pay good money to see that.”
I punch him in the shoulder and he laughs at me. My phone rings. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. I assigned the ring tone to the boss, Zaworski.
“Yes sir?” I ask after swiping the arrows on my new iPhone about three times. My old Nokia just had a button to push.
