by Dan O'Shea
“OK, look. Nobody’s saying Eddie did anything. This looks like a professional hit. That generally means money and criminal contacts. Eddie’s got one, some of the people he’s done business with have both.”
Heaton shrugged. “Detective, I assure you, if Mr Marslovak had an idea, you’d know. If he gets an idea, you will know. Now, are we through?”
Lynch nodded. “A pleasure, counsel. You know, you sure do talk pretty. You got any tips for me, anything I can do to raise my level of discourse?”
“A rose smells as sweet no matter the name, detective. And a buffoon sounds as coarse.”
“What do you think, Slo-mo,” said Lynch, looking at the lawyer. “Am I the rose or the buffoon?”
“I thought you were the ice cream man,” said Bernstein.
Lynch moved the Crown Victoria through the North Michigan Avenue traffic around Marslovak’s office like a blunt instrument. Bernstein was trying to time sips on his coffee with Lynch’s lane changes.
“How’d you like Eddie’s lawyer?” Lynch asked.
“Have to call my parents, see if they’re still looking to breed their Rottweiler. Pretty sure the vet said it can’t screw any lawyers, though. Not without a condom.”
“Yeah. So what’s your read on Eddie? Anything?”
“Definitely have to say he didn’t hire anyone to pop his mom. Seems too, I don’t know, volatile to set this up. Could see that lawyer doing it.”
“Get the sense he was holding anything back on the waste hauling thing or those Andes guys?”
“Got the sense the next time he holds something back will be the first.”
“Yeah,” Lynch answered. “Man, I wish I knew what she said in that confessional.”
“You Catholics and your secrets.”
“Careful, Slo-mo. Don’t make me bring the Cabalists into this.”
Back in the office, Lynch and Bernstein ran down what they got from Marslovak, which was nothing.
“Not nothing,” Starshak said. “You did manage to piss him off. I got a call from the deputy chief, who got a call from the chief, who got a call from the mayor. Eddie telling them you all but accused him of being a mob guy and a drug dealer.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Lynch.
“Course it is,” said Starshak. “Still like to keep it off our shoes, though.”
“I got nothing left to rattle his cage about, so I guess we’re OK there,” Lynch said. “What’s with the lab? Still ain’t got ballistics.”
“Called while you were out,” Starshak said. “Guy wants you to stop down.”
A lab tech named Pfundstein met Lynch by the elevators. Pfundstein looked about thirteen, wearing glasses that probably weighed as much as he did.
“I’m sorry to take so long with the results, detective, but I’ve been having some trouble with this one.”
“Slug went through her sternum and her spine and dug into a piece of oak,” Lynch said. “Figured it was pretty fucked up.”
“Oh, it is. Fucked up, I mean.” Pfundstein pushing his glasses up his nose. “If you were hoping to be able to match this to a weapon, forget it. I’ve got the metallurgy for you, and it’s not your garden variety stuff, so that might help a little.”
“So what was the trouble?”
“Even as messed up as the slug is, it should still have marks, right? I mean it’s like fingerprints. Lots of times you get partials. Maybe not enough for a match, but at least you get something. This slug? Nothing. Can’t tell you the number of grooves. Can’t tell you left twist, right twist. Nothing.”
“So what? Smooth-bore weapon of some kind?”
“At that range? Hard to see it. I’m thinking maybe it was saboted.”
“What’s that?”
“Take a bullet. You coat it with something like cellulose, some kind of resin maybe. Coating picks up the spin from the rifling, so your slug stays accurate, but the coating burns off, both in the barrel and in flight. Only way I can think we get a slug with no marks at all.”
“Sounds a little James Bond. This happen much?”
CHAPTER 22 – CHICAGO
Jose Villanueva drove up to Sacred Heart. The church had one of those Saturday evening masses where you could get the thing out of the way, sleep in Sunday. Or be ready for the Bears game, whatever. Anyway, the chink bitch wanted the job done tonight. Villanueva figured he’d do the mass, get a look at the layout. Grab a bulletin, too. Make sure that nothing was going on in the church later, that he didn’t break in in the middle of an all-night novena or something.
He sat in the middle about halfway back. He could see the confessionals on the east wall. The pews were laid out in a sort of semicircle, so only the ones on his far right had their backs straight to the confessionals. After that, they started curving away. Camera should be on the bottom of the last pew in that far right section.
Confessional layout was pretty basic. Two sets of three doors. Middle door for the priest, doors on either side for people to come in, spill the beans on themselves. Middle door on the second set of three had a little name plate over it, so Villanueva figured he’d check that set first. Could be they brought a priest in from one of the other parishes to help with confessions, but figured the parish guy was here every time.
He’d walked past the vestibule on the south side on his way in, recognizing it from the news. That was where Eddie Marslovak’s mom got it. Bad set up, though. Easy to see from the street, streetlight at the end of the walk. He’d come in to mass through the main door, but that sucked, too. No cover at all. Also, it was a big-ass door, maybe ten feet high, three or four inches thick. Couple of locks on it that he could see, one of them some real old fucker that he’d have to fiddle with some because he was pretty sure he hadn’t worked one like that before.
After mass, he walked out the vestibule and looped around the building, cutting up the narrow walk that ran around the north end of the church. Not a lot of room between the north end and the bungalow behind it. People in the bungalow had planted a tall hedge at the back of their property. No leaves yet, so it wouldn’t be much help if he had a flashlight on, but there should be enough ambient light to see.
A set of cement stairs ran down parallel to the walk to a door into the basement of the church. Villanueva took a quick peek up and down the walk. Nobody looking. He took the stairs. Fairly deep basement, twelve steps down. Stairs forming a dark well. Villanueva figured he could use a penlight down here no problem. Nobody’d see that unless they were right on top of him. Standard metal security door, wire mesh embedded in the window. Schlage lock. Rinky-dink residential alarm he could bypass in about twenty seconds with a pocket knife and a couple alligator clips. Getting up into the church ought to be easy once he got into the basement.
Back in the car, Villanueva ran down what he’d need. Just the small set of picks. Christ, he could do a Schlage in his sleep. Wear the black Adidas warm-ups. He could park a couple blocks up, jog around the neighborhood a little, make sure everything looked cool. Do the job around 10.00, maybe 10.30. Funny how people thought 3am was the best time to break in somewhere. Everybody looks suspicious at 3am. Ten o’clock, people are still out, walking their dogs or whatever. Still some background noise, some traffic.
CHAPTER 23 – SCHAUMBURG, ILLINOIS
Lynch and Johnson were in the middle of what Lynch figured was their tenth circuit of the Ikea store in Schaumburg, Johnson showing him all sorts of end tables and shelves and shit she thought would look good in her place. She had good taste, little quirky maybe.
“So this is your idea of fun, huh?” Lynch said.
“You’re forgetting, Lynch, I’m not a Chicago girl. I grew up in white-bread country, home of the largest mall in America. This isn’t the main event, though. We’re going over to Woodfield next, walk the mall, maybe see a movie.” She’d called him just after he got back from Marslovak’s office, told him it was her turn to take him out.
“Jesus. We gonna eat bad pizza in the food court?”
“Chick flick?”
“Yep.”
“We gonna at least sit in the back so I can feel you up?”
“That’s the idea,” she said.
Halfway through some movie about some young, good-looking chick dying of cancer, Lynch caught himself smiling. Christ. He was having fun. Sitting through a bad movie, wandering through a mall, out in the freakin’ suburbs, and he was having fun.
Johnson sniffled next to him. “I need your hanky,” she whispered.
“Don’t have one.”
“What kind of man takes a girl to a movie like this and doesn’t bring a hanky?”
“Sorry, out of practice.”
Johnson nudged her head into his shoulder, and he put his arm around her head. He slid his hand down, gave her breast a little squeeze. She slapped his hand.
“I’m trying to watch the movie,” she said.
A minute later, Lynch felt her hand rubbing his thigh.
“Thought you were watching the movie,” he said.
“I am,” she said, “but you’re not.”
Lynch smiling again. God, this was fun.
After the movie, Johnson drove to one of the restaurants ringing the mall. Houlihans, TGIF, Chili’s, Lynch couldn’t remember without looking at the little plastic dessert menu. Bennigans.
“I know this will sound stupid, but this place reminds me of home,” Johnson said.
“Why? Your dad like to make up stupid names for drinks?”
Johnson laughed. “Just growing up. Out with my friends, we’d always end up in some place like this, you know? Talk about who was going out with who and how far they were going. Just comfortable, that’s all.”
They just sat for a while. Lynch was drinking a black and tan, which he’d had to let stand for five minutes before it got any separation, but still, a black and tan. Johnson was having some drink named after a cartoon character. Nice they could just sit, drink, play a little footsie, nobody feeling like they had to talk all the time.
“Are you doing OK, Lynch? Having urban withdrawal?”
Lynch smiled. “This is nice. You keep doing that with your foot, and I’m not going to be able to stand up, though.”
“So, when was the last time you were out of the city?”
“Berwyn count?”
“No.”
“Cicero?”
“No place where Al Capone used to hang out.”
Lynch laughed. “I guess Christmas. I drove my mom up to my sister’s. Right before she got real bad.”
“Where’s that?”
“Milwaukee. She’s some big-shot VP with Northwestern Mutual. Her husband is a surgeon. Got a couple kids, getting up to junior high now.”
“Are you guys close?”
“Not like we should be,” Lynch said. “Guess I’m supposed to lie about that, right? Used to be, when she was little.”
“What happened?”
“Hard to say. Everything changed after my father was killed. I tried to be dad, she resented it. Nothing horrible, but we just… People say drifted right? That sounds so stupid. I mean, I call sometimes, she calls sometimes, and it’s, you know, how are the kids? They’re fine. How’s work? Work’s good.” Lynch took a sip of his beer, looked out the window. Wind shifting around, starting to pick up. “I miss her. Funny, huh? She’s not dead or anything, but I miss her.”
“That’s got to be hard now, with your mom.”
Lynch shrugged.
The waiter came by, asked if they wanted dessert.
“I think we’re going to have that somewhere else,” Johnson said, looking at Lynch, her foot sliding up his leg again. “I’ve got a taste for something I don’t see on the menu.”
It was colder walking out to the car. The wind was out of the northwest now, Lynch smelled rain in the air. Johnson drove south on 355 toward the 290 extension that ran east toward the city. She drove fast, weaving through the moderate traffic.
“You’re quiet, Lynch,” she said.
“Thinking about the Marslovak case.”
“And you’re afraid to say anything to me?”
“Yeah, well, you’re still the press, Johnson. I mean, this is your beat.”
Johnson cut right around a slow-moving SUV, ran up behind a semi in the right lane with a panel truck next to it, cut two lanes left around them and then back across all three lanes and onto the 290 ramp.
“Jesus,” Lynch said. “Good thing I’m not working traffic.”
Silence again, and not comfortable.
“This could be a problem for us,” said Johnson. “If we can’t talk to each other.”
“Yeah.”
Quiet again for a while.
“How about this, Lynch. Unless I say otherwise, everything you tell me is off the record. Not just not-for-attribution, not just background, it’s strictly between us. Can you trust me that far?”
Lynch thought for a second. He’d only known Johnson at all for a few months, only known her personally for three days. But you either trust somebody or you don’t. He could think of guys he’d known all his life he’d trust about as far as he could dropkick a floor safe.
“Yeah. I think I can.”
“OK, then.”
They drove in silence for a while, Lynch knowing it was a kind of test now. He’d have to say something. She wanted him to say something.
“It’s the confession thing,” Lynch said. “I can’t get past thinking that Marslovak said something in that confessional, and whatever she said, that got her killed.”
“And the priest won’t say?”
“Can’t say,” said Lynch. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“Lutheran, I guess. You hear people say they’re cultural Jews? I guess I’m a cultural Lutheran. My family didn’t go to services much. Christmas, Easter, stuff like that. Gives you a place to have weddings and funerals, though, almost like being in some kind of club.”
“I’m pretty much in the same boat now. We went growing up. Every Sunday, every holy day. Catholic schools, altar boy, the whole thing. I just... I don’t know. I don’t believe a lot of things I used to believe. I don’t do a lot of things I used to do. I guess church is one of them.”
“Lose your faith, Lynch?”
“Makes it sound like a quarter under a couch cushion somewhere. I believe there’s a God,” Lynch said. “Hard to know what to believe beyond that. I can’t help feeling sometimes that if I ever meet him, I’m not going to like him much.”
“So what’s with the confession thing? Priest really can’t say?”
“Rules are the priest can’t reveal anything said within the seal of confession.”
“Even though she’s dead?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Then how could anyone know? I mean if he didn’t say anything–”
“Oh, shit.” Lynch grabbed his cell phone off his belt and dug a small notepad out of his jacket pocket. He found the number for Sacred Heart and dialed it. Father Hughes answered.
“Father, Detective Lynch. I know it’s a little late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Actually, I just got in from the hospital, detective, visiting a parishioner. What can I do for you?”
“The crime scene guys, did they look inside the church at all?”
“Not much.”
“You going to be up in, say, half an hour?”
“I could be, why?”
“I’d like to take a look inside the church.”
“All right, detective. I’ll see you around 10.30 then.”
Lynch flipped the phone shut, dropped it on the seat.
“Get over to 294 north, we’re going to church. And stop driving like an old lady, will you? Let’s make some time.”
Jose Villanueva cruised past the church. Lights were out. Weather had turned some, a misty rain just starting, wind picking up a little. He saw one dog walker a block past the church. Guy had his collar up, head down, pretty much dragging some
poodle-type rat dog along. Villanueva looped back to the east and parked his Explorer in the lot of a convenience store near Belmont.
Villanueva jogged the six blocks back toward the church. Tracksuit on, use the die-hard exercise addict disguise. He had his picks, a Swiss Army knife, and a mini-Maglight in his left-hand jacket pocket. The short-barreled .38 bounced, zipped in the right-hand pocket. Also had several different lengths of coated wires with alligator clips on the ends. The rain was picking up and coming sideways, but the black Adidas warm-ups were Gore-Tex, so it wasn’t too bad. As he came to the church, he was tempted to cut right up the narrow walk on the north side, get in out of the rain, but he ran past, circled the block. Nobody was out. Visibility was getting bad, too.
He checked his watch as he came up on the narrow walk the second time. 10.14. Good a time as any. He didn’t vary his pace, just turned up the walk like it was a short cut he used all the time, then trotted down the cement stairs to the basement door of the church.
He turned on a penlight and held it in his mouth. Then he took the pocket knife, opened the blade, and carefully sliced back the coating on a couple of wires attached to the alarm on the door. He pulled the wires out of his jacket, picked two that were the right length, and clipped them to the exposed spots on the wires. He looked at his watch. 10.19.
He put the extra wires and the pocket knife back in his jacket and pulled out the narrow black case that held his picks. It took him less than thirty seconds to rake the tumblers and turn the lock. He was in.
Johnson pulled up in front of the rectory at 10.41. Father Hughes pulled the door open just as they walked up. He was wearing black pants and a heavy turtleneck. Johnson and Lynch stepped into the foyer.
“Guess spring is over already,” the priest said.
“You Chicagoans are such wimps,” said Johnson.
“Father, this is Liz Johnson,” said Lynch. “Liz, Father Hughes.” Johnson and Hughes shook hands.
“Your partner?” the priest asked.
