She frowned at her coffee and picked up a spoon. Deep lines creased her forehead. “Hell. You’d find out anyway.”
Matt leaned forward. So did Nelson.
“You know the story about the man who went to Vegas for the weekend, shtupped a couple of showgirls, and was asked what kind of Shabbos he had?”
Matt vaguely remembered the joke. The punch line was “great Shabbos”, he recalled.
“Well, my husband had a great Shabbos every week. Without needing to travel.”
Matt swallowed. Nelson looked baffled.
Charlene turned a snappish gaze to Nelson. “My husband was a philanderer, Detective,” she said. “A real skirt chaser. He liked them young, dumb, and blond. But he wasn’t picky.”
Nelson winced.
“He didn’t even bother to hide it any more. He’s got an office in Glenbrook and one downtown. But he spends more time at East Bank than anywhere else. He goes there to work out, then finds someone to work on him.” The corners of her mouth turned up, but there was no mirth in the smile.
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“Friday afternoon. He said he’d be home for dinner. Actually, I was surprised. I figured he’d struck out.”
“But you didn’t call the police till Sunday.”
“He never showed up. I assumed he must have picked someone up after all. I didn’t expect to see him until Saturday night.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s only a one night stand with his Shabbos house floozies. He never wants—wanted entanglements. He doesn’t even take showers away from home.”
Matt glanced at the trees. She knew what he was and condoned it. There ought to be a sign on their lawn that says “dysfunctional and proud of it.”
“What about you? Where were you on Friday night?”
“Where do you think? I was here, watching our dinner get cold.”
He’d just about convinced himself that it was okay to dislike this woman when he recalled something a playwright once said. “A husband, even he that has sinned, is still one.” In the final analysis, it didn’t matter what Louis Simon had done, or how his wife reacted. The man had been her husband, and now he was dead. He softened his voice. “Can anyone confirm that?”
She played with her spoon. “I did get a couple of phone calls. Normally, we don’t pick up on Friday night, but I thought it might be Louis.”
Matt took down the names and times of the callers. “Did your husband have any enemies you knew of?”
“Are you kidding? Louis was a dentist. You know, cavities, root canals, implants. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Except you, Matt thought. “What about children?”
She shook her head.
“Did he seem preoccupied or upset recently?”
“No.”
“What about medications? Was he taking anything new recently?”
“Aside from Celebrex for his arthritis, and that little blue pill, I don’t believe so.”
“Can we take a look at the medicine cabinet?”
She rose from the table and led them to a large bathroom with gold wallpaper and black fixtures. Matt and Nelson looked through a mirrored cabinet the width of the wall. Nelson pointed to a half-filled bottle of Vicodin. Charlene’s name was on the label.
“What about these?” Matt asked.
“They were for a root canal Louis did on me a while back. No one’s used them in years.”
As they finished their search, the sound of Nelson’s cell phone cut through the quiet. She fished it out of her bag.
“Yeah? Good work,” she murmured. “No. I’ll let you know. Thanks.” She hung up. “We found your husband’s car, Mrs. Simon. In the East Bank garage. You have a spare set of keys?”
Charlene nodded.
That meant Simon didn’t use the car when he left East Bank, Matt thought. More important, whoever killed him didn’t either. Matt looked over at Nelson. “You’ll make arrangements to have it gone over?”
“You bet.”
Exiting the bathroom, Matt gazed around the bedroom, decorated in muted shades of brown and turquoise. “I hope you won’t take offense, ma’am, but your lifestyle is one most people only dream about. Did your husband have other business ventures? Beyond his practice?”
“Let’s see, Detective, how does one put it?” She paused. “I am a woman of independent means. Have been for years. Fortunately, I’ve made some wise investments.”
Matt focused on the abstract painting above the king-sized bed. She was the one with the money. Not Simon. That’s why he kept coming home. But, if she held the balance of power, at least over the checkbook, why did she let him?
“You know, Detective, when you asked about enemies, I didn’t think of the bimbo brigade. Is it possible one of them— “?
“We’ll be looking at that, ma’am. Would you by any chance know where he kept his—personal records?”
“His little black book?” She let out a breath. “Not here, obviously. Try his office.”
He nodded. He asked if any strange letters or packages had arrived at the house recently. Or unfamiliar photographs.
“Nothing that I know of.”
“Do you have any connection to RDM, business or otherwise?”
“The people that haul away our trash?” She looked puzzled. “No.”
“You don’t hold any of their stock, or notes, or anything?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
“Probably nothing.” Matt closed his notepad and they walked back to the kitchen. “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Simon. If there’s anything more we can do, please let us know.”
She stood up too. “When can I bury him?”
According to Jewish law, the dead must be buried right away, sometimes within twenty-four hours. “They’re doing the autopsy this afternoon. We should be able to release the body tomorrow.”
Her face smoothed out, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you.” She took the coffee cup to the sink and ran cold water over it. “Detective Singer, tell me something.”
He cocked his head.
She looked at him. “How do you mix halucha with homicide?”
Why was she asking about Jewish law? “Excuse me?”
“I was just wondering if you can ever do justice to both.”
***
Outside Matt and Nelson compared notes.
“That was a brilliant move, Singer, with the scriptures. How did you know it would work?”
“I didn’t. It was luck.”
“Luck counts.”
He wasn’t so sure. Charlene Simon’s zinger had hit home. He usually tried to keep the two parts of his life separate, but today he’d used one to further the other. He felt like a backwoods preacher promising redemption for a twenty-dollar bill. “What’s your take on her?”
“I think it’s possible that she had enough of him.”
They crossed the street to her car. “And had him taken out?”
She nodded and climbed into her car.
“If it weren’t for the MO, I’d agree with you.” He leaned over the door. “How much do you know about the Romano case?”
“Only what I read in the paper.”
“There are a couple of similar circumstances.”
She looked up.
“Both bodies were moved, and both were probably dead when they were moved.”
Nelson tapped a finger against her lips. “You think the dentist was boffing Romano, the wife found out about it, and had Romano killed? And then went after her husband?”
“Romano was gay.”
“Well, there goes that theory.” Nelson stopped. “What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said similar circumstances.”
“RDM figures in both crime scenes,” Matt said. “Add in the fact that we rarely get a homicide up here. Suddenly we have two in two weeks.”
“I guess I know where you’re going next.�
�� She inclined her head. “Hey, what was that stuff with the milk all about?”
Matt explained that Jews who keep kosher don’t eat or drink dairy products for a few hours after eating meat. After his reference to the Torah, Mrs. Simon must have assumed Matt kept kosher and offered him non-dairy creamer in case he had eaten meat. He hadn’t, so milk was acceptable.
“Sounds complicated.”
“Not when you’re used to it.”
Nelson rolled down the window. “Look, I know this is your case, but if there’s anything I can do…”
“We’re putting together a Task Force. You want in?”
Nelson’s eyes brightened. “You can do that?”
“I just did. I need you to check out East Bank. See what you can dig up.”
“Aside from pecs and testosterone?”
“Let me know what you find. Meanwhile, we’ll check out Simon’s offices.”
“You got it.”
Matt watched her pull away from the curb. Competent. That’s what he’d picked up about Carrie Nelson. She was competent.
Chapter Nineteen
Before heading over to RDM, Matt stopped in at Louis Simon’s office on Shermer. A young receptionist with red-rimmed eyes walked Matt past four treatment rooms to a small office in back. Matt searched the desk and found Simon’s black book in a drawer. Thumbing through it, he saw that most of the entries bore initials followed by numbers. He pocketed the book.
In the drawer he also found a recent Visa statement that included charges from Irv’s, a men’s store, and a florist on Dundee Road. He also found a bill from the East Bank Club. Three items, in the thirty to forty dollar range, came from the club’s restaurant. More than one person ate lunch.
Looking through the rest of the desk, he retrieved a small zippered bag that contained aftershave, a toothbrush, and mouthwash. The man apparently followed the Boy Scout motto. But there were no stray papers. Or photographs.
His next stop was RDM in Mount Prospect. The trash company was headquartered off Wolf Road in a squat building with black letters stenciled on a glass door. Inside was a large room with fluorescent lights and linoleum tiles. A green Formica counter separated him from three women sifting through paperwork and listening to easy rock. Matt identified himself to a young brunette. She snapped off the radio and disappeared down a hall.
A minute later the woman returned and waved him through the gate at the counter. He followed her down a hall paneled in wood veneer to a room with a large desk at one end and a circular table and chairs at the other. Fake wood mini-blinds deepened the gloom. He got the impression RDM was a family-owned business that had expanded beyond its comfort level.
A short sinewy man rose from behind the desk. “Sam Ferraro, CEO of RDM.” The man, probably in his late thirties, had thick lips and small eyes, and his hair was styled. A gold watch gleamed under the cuff of his suit.
A second man at the table also stood up. Well into his sixties, he was stocky and rough-hewn, with shaggy gunmetal hair on the backs of his hands as well as his head. Dressed in casual gabardine slacks and a golf shirt, he looked like he used to haul garbage.
“Frank Ferraro.” He gestured to an empty chair. Matt sat down opposite the father. The son joined them.
“We are horrified and baffled by what’s happened, Detective,” the son began. “Anything we can do, we will.”
The son had the look of clean fingernails and a college degree. Matt wondered if he’d ever been behind the wheel of his own trucks. He turned to the elder Ferraro. “Do you have any enemies that you know of?”
“You think someone’s targeting us?”
“What do you think? Both homicides occurred on property belonging to RDM.”
The man shook his head. “I run a clean operation, sir. Have for thirty-five years. We’ve never had any problems.”
“You started the company?”
Ferraro nodded. “I hauled for the city of Chicago. Like my father before me. Local 456. But we always knew we could do as well as the city. So, when the suburbs started looking for contractors, we made the move.”
“Why here?”
“I knew people here, and they gave me a break. One thing led to another, and we grew. Now we haul all over the northern and western suburbs.” Pride rolled across his face. “I turned it over to Sammy two years ago.”
“Who did you know up here?”
“My cousins moved up here in the fifties—they run the Italian Gardens on Waukegan Road.”
Matt knew the place, an Italian restaurant with a fountain in the front, red checked tablecloths, and the tang of garlic in the air. It was one of Georgia’s favorites.
“I wanna tell you something, Detective.” Frank Ferraro leaned forward, his craggy eyebrows drawing together. “You should know there’s no funny business in our family. We’re hard-working, honest Americans.”
Some people felt compelled to tell you they weren’t mob. The question was whether you believed them. Especially since the sanitation business was controlled by organized crime. Matt leaned back. The man might not be mobbed up, but he could be paying a “tax” to someone who was. Still, that wasn’t necessarily relevant. If RDM had problems with the mob, it wouldn’t have been Romano and Simon who popped up on their property.
“I understand, Mr. Ferraro,” Matt said. “But I’d like to talk to your people anyway. See if anyone has a grudge.”
“We’ll make anyone available whenever you want. We want to get to the bottom of this too.”
Matt flipped through his notes. “Have you ever heard of a company called Prairie State Environmental Services?”
The son frowned. “They’re downstate, aren’t they? They haul toxic waste.”
“You know them?”
“Only by reputation.” He gazed at Matt. “Do you know anything about this business, Detective?”
“Not really.”
“There are your general firms, like us, that do the majority of the work. And then there are, what I guess they call in other fields, boutique firms that specialize in specific jobs. Prairie State is one of them. They take on jobs that are considered tough by normal standards. Big jobs, like Love Canal. Remember, Pop, when we were talking about starting a subsidiary to do that?”
The father spread his hands. “I couldn’t see it. We’re not that kind of company.”
“Dad thought we were cutting edge when we built the methane conversion plant.”
“You were the first in the state to do that, weren’t you?”
“We were.” Son Ferraro’s spine straightened. “But you’ve always got to think ahead in this business. Toxic waste is complicated. The regulations are strict, and with all the Superfund legislation, the liability situation is nuts. We can be sued just trying to clean up a site. Without polluting anything. Jesus, just to get the golf course up was a battle.”
“Do you still have any ownership interest in the course?”
“Not any more,” the son said. “We pick and choose our opportunities. We don’t want to be spread too thin.”
The elder Ferraro cut in. “Why are you asking about Prairie State?”
“Their name has come up. But you don’t have any kind of relationship with them?”
“None at all.”
***
“O God, full of mercy, who dwells on high, grant proper rest on the wings of
The Divine Presence…”
The rabbi was just starting a final blessing over the dead when Matt arrived at the funeral. Slipping a kipah on his head, he entered the back of the synagogue.
Nelson and Brewster had stationed themselves at the back of the sanctuary to observe the crowd, which, at over two hundred, was huge for a weekday afternoon. Scanning the pews, Matt spotted Stuart Feldman among the mourners. What was Feldman’s connection to Simon? Matt craned his neck to see if Ricki was with him. She wasn’t.
He was shocked at how much Feldman had aged. His face, once round and hearty, was gaunt, and there were circles und
er his eyes. The designer suits that used to cover him like a second skin hung in folds.
The service ended, and the mourners slowly worked their way through a receiving line. He and Brewster headed out to the unmarked. A television van was parked next to it, and the crew was unloading their gear. A young blonde was using the side-view mirror to fix her make-up. As the two Detectives drew near, she turned to them and smiled brightly.
“Detective Singer? Amy Ferguson, WMAQ. Is it true these two murders are connected and that RDM is in the middle of it?”
“I’m sorry. I have nothing to say.”
She shifted towards Brewster, who cut his eyes from the reporter to Matt with a look of panic on his face. Matt shook his head, and Brewster tucked his head down like a bull about to charge. Ferguson sidestepped around him and headed across the parking lot.
Matt grinned at his partner. “You learn fast.”
Brewster nodded.
“You pick up anything inside?”
“Nope. Just crowd control. What about RDM?”
“The owner kept telling me he wasn’t mobbed up.”
“You believe him?”
“Probably. But we’ll canvas their people anyway. Can you get a team together tomorrow?”
“You got it.”
The door to the synagogue opened, and Stuart Feldman emerged with Charlene Simon, his arm around her shoulder. Helping the widow into a limo, he waited until the car pulled away. He was about to turn away when Amy Ferguson approached him, microphone in hand. As the camera began to roll, he spoke earnestly into the mike. It occurred to Matt that Stuart Feldman liked wealthy, powerful women.
***
Matt pored over Simon’s autopsy report. The ME’s observation about blue skin had been prescient: Simon’s cause of death was pulmonary edema, which led to hypoxemia. In layman’s terms, his lungs had filled up with fluid, drowning and cutting off his oxygen supply. Though tissue cultures confirmed that fluids had seeped into his lungs because of a pulmonary irritant, the ME couldn’t identify what the irritant was.
As Matt read on, he grew uneasy. The cool temperature in the pit had slowed things down. Still, the rigor and blood composition confirmed the vic died before he went into the pit. Like Romano. But the ME couldn’t rule out an accidental emission or airborne toxin, so Simon’s manner of death could not conclusively be ruled a homicide. Again like Romano. The only thing the ME could say was that based on the corpse, whatever Simon inhaled probably took between thirty-six and forty-eight hours to kill him, unusually quick for most infectious agents.
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