Certain Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “Yeah, I’ll be here for a while.”

  “Mind if I stop by for a few minutes? I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Sure, no problem. When?”

  “I’m only a block away,” Tony said. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  Carvelli continued across the skyway to the parking ramp, hurried down a flight of stairs and exited the building on Sixth. He walked the short distance to Fourth Avenue, then turned north to go to the Old City Hall.

  A half a block away he jaywalked across Fourth and waved at a cop he knew who was cruising by. The cop stopped his squad car next to Tony and pushed the button to open the passenger window. The cop leaned across the seat and yelled, “Hey, numbnuts, you want a ticket for jaywalking?”

  Tony leaned into the window and with a big grin said, “Yeah, Belton. Give me a ticket for jaywalking. It would be the most work you’ve done for a month. And I’ll take you to court just to be a pain-in-the-ass.”

  “You don’t have to take me to court to be a pain in the ass you dago troublemaker. How you doing Tony? What are you up to?”

  “I’m heading to see Owen Jefferson about something, Paul. Good to see you again.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” the cop said as he pulled away.

  Carvelli continued his journey toward the Old City Hall. He looked up at the ugly granite structure with the Big Ben style clock in the tower. Opened in 1909, the building was an anachronistic reminder of a time gone by. These days, it looked totally out of place but Tony still liked the old building a lot. To him, it had been home for over two decades while he worked as a cop and it had twice as much character as any of the glass, chrome and concrete sterile monstrosities being built now.

  He strolled across Fifth Street against a red light crossing the light rail tracks barely twenty feet ahead of an oncoming train. Tony entered through the back entry on Fifth and walked to the detective’s squad room where Jefferson had a desk. On the way he said hello to almost a dozen policemen and women he knew.

  Carvelli was supposed to check in with security and receive a visitor’s badge. Ignoring this rule gave Tony an almost school boy mischievous sense of satisfaction. Besides, virtually everyone in the department knew who he was anyway.

  “What’s up?” Jefferson asked him as Tony approached the detective’s desk. Owen Jefferson was a lean, bald, six foot four inch black man with a tiny gold stud in his left ear. He had been a homicide detective for over four years and his case closure rate was the best in the department. It was rumored that his boss was about to be promoted to captain and kicked upstairs and every detective in the department expected and wanted Jefferson to succeed her.

  Carvelli nodded and waved a greeting at several of the detectives who looked up from their desks. He dropped into the uncomfortable, padded gray government issued chair next to Jefferson’s desk and looked around the room while the detective patiently waited for him to speak.

  “You know,” Carvelli began while still looking around the room. “I don’t think this place has changed a bit; probably not since the turn of the last century.”

  “So, that’s why you wanted to stop by, to critique the décor? You going into the interior decorating business?”

  “You’d have to redecorate this place with a flamethrower.”

  “Please stop. You’re offending my sensitive side,” Jefferson sarcastically said.

  “Howie Traynor,” Carvelli said turning his head to look directly at the detective.

  “Yeah, isn’t that interesting?”

  “Have you seen his prison record and psych eval?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah, read it yesterday.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s bullshit,” Jefferson answered. “You remember this guy. He was ice cold back in the day. You think he’s found Jesus and all of a sudden he’s touchy feely friendly?”

  “No, but you and I are cynical cops.”

  “So,” Jefferson continued, “what do you have in mind? He hasn’t done anything and I can’t watch him.”

  “After the trial, he made a shitload of threats when he was taken away. I heard from jail guards he said he’d get even with everyone.”

  “A lot of these assholes say that,” Jefferson shrugged as he opened a desk drawer and put his feet on the drawer and his hands locked together behind his head. “Again, Tony, there’s not much I can do until he does something.”

  Carvelli thought for a moment then leaned in across the desk and quietly said, “I’m just giving you a heads up. I don’t believe this guy’s bullshit for a minute and I’ll quietly keep an eye on him.”

  The tall detective shrugged his shoulders, dropped his feet to the floor, placed his forearms on the desk and in a whisper said, “Do it. Just be careful and keep me informed of anything you find.”

  “Will do,” Tony said as he patted his friend on the arm and stood to leave.

  Carvelli went out the same door he came in, went down the building’s concrete stairs and onto the light rail platform. He looked across Fifth at the fountain on the plaza in front of the government center and took in all of the people around it. It was a beautiful late August day and seeing the young women strolling about made him a touch nostalgic for his youth.

  Coming back to reality he removed his phone and pressed a very familiar number. Barely a second before the call went to voice mail a woman answered.

  “Hello, Anthony,” Vivian Donahue said.

  Vivian Corwin Donahue was the matriarch of a very well-known family that was one of the most socially prominent, politically connected and old-money wealthy in Minnesota. In her mid-sixties, she was still a very attractive woman and she could proudly boast, with the only exception being her hair color, it was all natural.

  The Corwin lineage could be traced back to the 1840’s when the family patriarch, Edward Corwin, immigrated to the mostly empty prairie that was Minnesota at the time. Edward started farming and began building an agricultural empire that was worth billions today. The family itself was no longer involved in Corwin Agricultural but Vivian, as the current head of the family, could still move political mountains and when she called a governor, senator, congressman or mayor, that person had better sit up and pay attention.

  “Are you home right now?” Tony asked his sometime lover.

  “Yes, come right over,” she replied.

  Twenty minutes later Carvelli parked his shiny, black Camaro next to a candy-apple red Bentley. He was in the circular driveway of the Corwin family mansion on fifteen acres of very expensive lakeshore property. The sixteen room mini-palace had been in the family since the early twentieth century. Even though Vivian often referred to it as a mausoleum, she would never part with it. It was the one place the entire Corwin clan, over one hundred of them, could gather.

  Tony reached for the doorbell but before he could press it, the door swung open and a very pretty young woman smiled, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

  “Hello, you gorgeous stud,” Vivian’s barely twenty-year-old granddaughter, Adrienne greeted him.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Tony replied.

  “Grandma’s out by the pool,” she said as she put her arm through his.

  “How are you?” Tony asked the young girl as the two of them walked through the big house toward the patio door. “Ready to go back to school?”

  “Oh, yes and no,” she said. “I like it here but I’m finding out you can’t stay a young dilettante forever. Especially with the Dragon Lady around,” Adrienne giggled.

  Tony looked at her and said, “I’ll tell her you mentioned her.”

  “Don’t you dare! Besides, you know how much I love her.”

  They reached the double French patio doors leading to the pool and patio. Adrienne opened the door for him, patted him on the back and let him go through the door alone.

  Vivian was sitting in a padded patio chair next to a round table with a large umbrella in its middle. Tony walked over
to her, bent down and kissed her cheek.

  “Hello, Anthony,” she said with a genuine smile. Vivian was the only person, other than his mother when she was mad at him, who called him Anthony. For some reason that he could not quite explain, it seemed right coming from her.

  Tony removed a copy of the prison record of Howie Traynor from his coat pocket and placed it on the table before her. He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair next to her and sat down.

  “Is this the prison record?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Tony replied.

  “Give me the Cliff’s Notes version. I’ll read it all later.”

  Tony poured a glass of lemonade from the pitcher on the table and refilled Vivian’s as well. They sipped their drinks while he gave her a brief overview of the report he had just handed her.

  “Do you believe this miraculous transformation Mr. Traynor made from homicidal sociopath to devout Catholic?” she asked when he finished.

  “Not for an instant,” Tony emphatically said. “When I was in burglary, everyone knew who this guy was. Homicide knew him too. I knew a couple cops who were on the street undercover at the time who told me most of the dirtbags in the Cities knew Howie Traynor. He scared the hell out of everyone, including the cops. It was as if he had no feelings at all. Didn’t care about anyone or anything, including himself. Now he goes from that to a choir boy? I don’t think so.”

  “Can the police do anything about him?”

  “Not really. They don’t have the manpower to follow him even if they could. They pretty much have to wait until he does something.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “I don’t know. He made a lot of threats when he was convicted, even to his own lawyer, Marc Kadella.”

  “Marc was his lawyer then?” Vivian asked with genuine surprise. She knew Marc and was genuinely fond of him and respected him as a lawyer and a person. She also knew Marc’s love, Margaret Tennant.

  “Yes, he was,” Tony nodded. “It was his first homicide trial. Long story how he got stuck with it. Anyway,” he continued, “from what I remember and what others said, Marc did a good job for him but Howie didn’t see it that way.

  “Then at his hearing to get him released, Marc told me Howie acted like they were best friends. Marc said it made his skin crawl.”

  For the next several minutes they sat in silence while Vivian looked across the beautifully manicured lawn at the sailboats gliding by on Lake Minnetonka. Tony finished his lemonade and refilled their glasses.

  “I want to hire you to keep an eye on him,” Vivian finally said. “At least for a while until we’re sure one way or another.”

  “Vivian,” Tony said sternly looking at her. “This is not your responsibility. In fact, I would advise you to stay out of it.”

  “Anthony, this man murdered my aunt and gave it no more thought than if he had swatted a fly. That makes it my business. Plus, at this point, we both believe he will kill again and the police are helpless to prevent it. All I’m asking is to hire you to do what you do and watch him until we’re sure.”

  Knowing the futility of trying to dissuade this headstrong, remarkable woman, Tony looked at her, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay, I’ll do it. Better me than someone else. But I do have other clients and…”

  “I know that,” Vivian said.

  “…I’ll call Maddy Rivers and…”

  “I was going to suggest that you do. Send me your bill, pad it all you want, I don’t care. Talk to Madeline and bring her to see me. She’s so gorgeous even I like looking at her.”

  “I was going to say, Maddy Rivers and some other guys I know, retired cops, to help me.”

  “Bring in whomever you need.”

  THIRTEEN

  While Tony was driving away from the mansion he took out his phone and pressed a speed dial button. It barely finished ringing once when it was answered.

  “Hey, Carvelli,” he heard a P.I. friend of his, Madeline Rivers say.

  Madeline Rivers was an ex-cop from the Chicago Police department in her early thirties. In her three-inch heeled suede half boots she liked to wear she was over six feet tall. She had a full head of thick dark hair with auburn highlights that fell down over her shoulders, a model gorgeous face and a body worthy of Playboy. In fact, foolishly posing for that magazine was what led her to quit the Chicago PD.

  Maddy, as she was called by her friends, had moved to Minneapolis after quitting the Chicago cops following her Playboy spread. At the same time, she also went through an ugly breakup when she found out the doctor she had fallen for was married. After arriving in Minnesota she got a private investigator’s license. Maddy was befriended by Tony Carvelli and she was now doing quite well herself.

  “You busy?” Tony asked her.

  “You mean right this minute?”

  “Yeah, we need to meet. I got a project and I’m going to need another body.”

  “Okay, where and when?” she asked.

  Tony gave her the name of a place in downtown Minneapolis; a British style pub and restaurant on the Nicollet Mall.

  “Yeah, I know it,” she said. “I’ll see you there in about twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll meet you upstairs in the patio area. I’ll be there in a few minutes and get us a table.”

  “Okay, see you then.”

  Maddy entered the pub through the door on Nicollet. She removed her sunglasses and stood at the entrance for ten seconds to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Satisfied she could see, she told the young hostess she was going upstairs to the patio. Despite the fact that it was mid-afternoon of a work day, the pub was more than half full of customers. While Maddy walked toward the stairway, almost every male head and most of the females turned to watch her. Dressed in designer jeans, a white sleeveless silk blouse, her usual three inch heeled half boots and the sunglasses on her head, she looked like a model strolling through the dining room.

  Ignoring the gawkers, she went up the stairs into the bright sunlight and looked over the crowd until she saw Tony wave at her. When she reached his table, she offered her cheek for a quick kiss then took a seat.

  “So, what’s up?” she asked.

  “Have you been reading the papers? Watching the news about those guys released from prison because of bad DNA tests?”

  “No, not really. I’ve been in Chicago to see my parents. I just got back yesterday,” Maddy replied.

  “How’s your Dad?”

  The waitress came to their table and took their orders.

  “He’s good,” she smiled. “The cancer is in remission and his strength is back and he’s doing pretty well, thank God. I never realized how much I would miss him until he got sick. So, tell me…”

  Tony saw the waitress returning with their drinks and waited for her to set them on the table and leave. For the next fifteen minutes he told her the entire story and brought her up to date.

  “This guy murdered Vivian’s aunt. That can’t make her happy and that’s one lady I wouldn’t want to have displeased with me,” Maddy said.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Tony said. “Guess who this Traynor had for a lawyer?”

  “Marc?”

  “Yep. His first homicide and Traynor threatened him too.”

  “What can we do? What can the cops do?”

  “The cops can’t do anything. If they even go near him they could get slapped with a harassment suit. The two of us, though,” Tony continued, “can do loose surveillance and I know some retired cops we can get to help. Vivian insists on paying us. What I’d like to do is spend at least a couple of weeks watching him. See where he goes, who he talks to, stuff like that. See if we can find out if he really found Jesus or if it’s an act.”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “This is for you,” Tony said as he handed her a photo of Howie Traynor. “It’s a little old but it still looks like him. He’s pushing forty now and his hair is a little longer but you’ll recognize him.

&nbs
p; “First thing I have to do is find him. He’s not on parole or in a halfway house so we don’t know where he is. I know a few places to check out. If he’s still here, I’ll find him.”

  “What about the priest that was in court with him?” Maddy asked still staring at Traynor’s picture.

  “He’s on the list. I’ll see him if I have to.”

  “Dead eyes,” Maddy muttered. “If you look in his eyes…”

  “Oh, I had the opportunity, up close and personal and there’s nothing behind them. When I saw him there wasn’t a spark of human emotion. But don’t let that fool you. The shrinks say he has a 130 IQ. He’s no dummy.”

  “Get me a copy of everything you have, please.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I should have and didn’t think of it. I will,” Tony apologized. “I’m going to take off and see if I can get a line on him.”

  “You want me to check out some places?”

  “No,” he shook his head as they both stood to leave. Tony dropped a twenty dollar bill on the table and said, “You’d stick out like a sore thumb in these dives. Plus it will be better if you stay in the background for now. I’ll call you later.”

  Tony parked the Camaro at the back of the bar’s parking lot away from any other cars. Most of the patrons of the East End on East Franklin Avenue were not likely to be too concerned about banging their car door against another car. This was the fourth place he had been and so far, no luck.

  When he got inside, he took a seat at the bar close to the door and ordered a glass of beer. While he sipped his drink he casually looked over the crowd, several of whom were also checking him out. Tony could see into the back where the pool tables were which reminded him of the night they had dragged Howie Traynor out of here. After a few minutes he saw a disheveled, long-haired, heavily tattooed man come out of the men’s room and join the pool players. He was dressed in old jeans, a black T-shirt with the Rolling Stones’ tongue logo on the front, battered sneakers and a denim vest.

  About two minutes after leaving the men’s room he made eye contact with Tony. Carvelli quickly finished his beer and set the empty glass on the bar. As inconspicuously as possible, he stood and strolled out the door to wait in his car. Fifteen minutes after leaving the bar, Tony saw the man he was waiting for leave the bar and start walking west on Franklin. Carvelli patiently waited another three minutes to be sure no one followed the man then drove out of the lot looking for him.