Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

  Doubt in the 2nd Degree is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Marc Krulewitch

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ebook ISBN 9780399593345

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  By Marc Krulewitch

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The mouse had been replaced by a penguin. An emperor penguin, to be exact. My jazz-themed coffee shop, Mocha Mouse, was now Penguin House. Since emperor penguins acquire tailcoats at an early age, the penguin needed only a bow tie and top hat to complete the outfit. And like his mouse predecessor, the penguin played an alto saxophone. His name was Parker, as in Charlie Parker. Penguins were birds, after all.

  I sat in Penguin House, reading about the latest unarmed African American shot dead by the Chicago police, when an unknown number appeared on my cellphone. Usually, I ignored unidentified numbers, thinking it better for the caller to leave a message than for me to appear to be someone who jumped on the phone as soon as it rang. A sign of weakness, I thought. But today, I felt like talking.

  “Landau Investigations, Jules Landau speaking.”

  “This is Debbie Lopez from the Cook County Public Defender’s Office.”

  It took a moment to register what I heard. “Why does your name sound familiar?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Wait a minute! You got that guy out of prison. The one doing life without parole. You proved him innocent.”

  “I’m glad you pay attention to what’s going on. But now I have a new client, Kate McCall—”

  “Really? The one who murdered that auto-parts heiress in her apartment on East Lake Shore Drive?” I had not been following the story closely, but I did recall paparazzi photos of the victim, Jackie Whitney, stepping out of a limousine or laughing in a Michelin-rated restaurant. Late forties, fake blond, too much time under a sunlamp.

  “Mr. Landau—”

  “Jules.”

  “Jules,” she said, a touch impatiently, “I really don’t have a lot of time to talk right now, but my client has asked me to hire a private investigator.”

  “Doesn’t the public defender’s office have their own investigators?”

  “We do, but she wants me to hire a non–state employee.”

  “Why me?”

  “Apparently you’ve acquired a reputation.”

  “She can’t even afford a lawyer. How’s she going to pay me?”

  “I have no idea, but if you’re interested in the job, the three of us need to get together tomorrow, at the jail. You can discuss money with her then. So what do you think?”

  Was it a trick question? “I’m interested, but if I start getting the feeling she’s going to flake out on me regarding money, I’m gone.”

  “I’d expect nothing less from a PI. You and I need to meet tonight. I’ll call you back with a time.”

  I didn’t argue. She had the kind of all-business demeanor that said it was best to just agree then shut up.

  —

  In a thriving North Side neighborhood of various skin tones, creeds, and ethnicities, delicious smells emanated from the domed brick oven of the Kutaisi Georgian Bakery. Tamar Gelashvili, a petite woman with jet-black hair framing a beautiful, slightly Asiatic face, owned and operated the bakery. The previous owner, Tamar’s “Uncle Gigi,” had been arrested along with two Russian gangsters for their roles in murder, human trafficking, prostitution, and money laundering. Tamar’s cousin had been killed by this cabal. In the course of my investigation, Tamar and I had become more than friends, but the demands of running a bakery necessitated a cooling-off period. Now, with the addition of some competent help and newfound confidence, we’d decided it was time to talk.

  The late morning rush was winding down. I stood at the edge of the counter watching Tamar flit through the kitchen in a white V-neck T-shirt. When I caught her eye, she smiled warmly, disappeared into the prep room, then returned with a plate of flaky pastries. I followed her to a table. A glaze of perspiration spread down her lovely neck to the cleavage of her beautiful breasts. Butterflies swarmed my abdomen. Tamar put the plate down and gave me a vigorous hug.

  “It’s great to see you looking more relaxed,” I said.

  Tamar grinned. “You learn a lot in the first few months of running a business. Anyway, I spoke to my accountant and he said I should ask how you want the return on your investment structured.”

  After the arrests were made and the dust settled, seized assets and many years of unpaid taxes had put the bakery’s future in doubt. Tamar desperately tried to raise enough money to satisfy all the statutory and municipal vultures flying lethargic loops around the North Side neighborhood, but the debt seemed insurmountable. Since I had inherited a 1933 Cadillac V-16, for which I would incur significant storage expenses, I sold the car and parked the money in the bakery.

  “All I want is the principal back,” I said. “Just pay at a pace that doesn’t put the bakery under pressure.”

  “That doesn’t seem right….”

  As Tamar struggled with my un-capitalistic tendencies, I wondered if our meeting was purely intended for business. Then I remembered the hug and foolishly read volumes into it.

  Tamar stopped talking and waited for my response. She looked very intense. “I might have an interesting client,” I said.

  I sensed annoyance at my segue.

  “Okay,” Tamar said.

  “You heard about the Gold Coast murder? The suspect, Kate McCall, wants to hire me.”

  Crickets. Then, “The Jackie Whitney killer? You don’t think she did it?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “You’ll take an accused murderer’s money but not mine? Is she special for some reason?”

  I searched her face. “What’s this about?”

  Tamar took her turn searching my face. “I’m not sure.” She thought about it a bit longer. “Maybe it’s the glee in your voice.”

  She was right. My speech did have an airy quality. “I suppose I’m feeling a little excitement at the prospect of a hig
h-profile client.”

  “And you don’t care if she’s guilty?”

  “Of course I care. But plenty of innocent people have been given life sentences, or been released from death row, or have died on death row. I want to believe the chances of that happening with Kate McCall are less if I’m involved.”

  Tamar’s face softened. “I see your point—but wait a second. The Partisan did a profile on Kate McCall. They made her out to be this dirt-poor twenty-year-old Appalachian who has no choice but to use a public defender. How could she afford a private investigator?”

  “Good question. After I meet her at the jail tomorrow, I’ll report back with an answer.”

  I waited. Tamar said, “The article didn’t include a picture. What does she look like?”

  I cleared my throat. “After I meet her at the jail tomorrow, I’ll report back with an answer.”

  “The Partisan kind of implied a hillbilly sex kitten—”

  “What the hell is wrong with—”

  “I’m working fourteen to fifteen hours a day. Down from seventeen to eighteen, although I’ve been training a manager who shows promise.”

  I gave her my raised-brow, wide-eyed look. “You need a better reason for me to get lost. How about telling me that only Georgian Orthodox boys stand a chance?”

  “I’m just being realistic! This bakery’s gonna dominate my life.”

  “Tamar, either you want to give something a chance or you don’t. The demands of the bakery are just an excuse.”

  From Tamar’s expression I anticipated disappointment. Then she said, “Maybe you’re right.”

  “About what?”

  “Using the bakery as an excuse.” She reached over, grabbed my shirt collar, and pulled me into an extended kiss. After releasing me, she stood and said, “Let me know what happens at the jail. I’m really curious. And we’re not done talking about my repayment schedule.”

  She walked back to the kitchen. I stayed put and called Debbie.

  “Yes, Jules,” Debbie said, still sounding testy.

  “I know we just talked, but I was wondering if I could see Kate on my own, today?”

  Dead air. “Why?”

  “I thought meeting alone might give me better insight into her. There could be a different dynamic with you around.”

  Loud exhale. “Well, you can try if you want. You’re supposed to fill out an application first, then wait three days for them to do a background check. I guess I could call and say it’s an emergency. They probably won’t buy that, though. Either way, if you go, don’t be in a hurry. You ever been to the maximum-security visiting area?”

  “Your tone tells me it’s joyful.”

  I thought, maybe, I heard the slightest mirthful snort. Before hanging up, Debbie emphasized that anything Kate talked about should be considered confidential. I assured her I understood, then drove home.

  —

  Once upon a time, a mostly black cat with a black dot of a nose inside a white mask climbed a dozen stairs, strolled through my open porch door, looked around, and adopted me. A few hours later, all my assumptions regarding cats as aloof creatures had been replaced with the knowledge that cats possessed human character traits making up distinct personalities. Not only did cats communicate with humans, they were happy to do so with an attitude. Within six months from the day she put down roots in my home, Punim’s sarcasm had reached epic proportions.

  Now, two years later, as I climbed a flight of steps to my apartment, Punim’s paws touched down with an audible thump. Once inside, I noticed a morning spent in comatose digestion of chicken hearts had yielded to wild pouncing on imperceptible prey. Although she was not technically feral, Punim’s domesticity was dubious at best. Weather permitting, the porch door was always open, yet she remained voluntarily homebound, venturing no farther than the landing, where she gazed into the alley of her untamed youth. Sitting on the couch, I ate a hummus sandwich and watched the beast claw her way up the red cedar cat tree, not stopping until she reached the top perch, where she began meticulously grooming.

  I opened my laptop and checked the newspaper archives to review what had been reported on Jackie Whitney’s murder. There were few details, only the basic facts that Kate McCall found Jackie Whitney dead in the bedroom closet of her Gold Coast apartment on May 19, three days after the victim returned from Palm Springs. An unidentified man had been renting the apartment during Jackie Whitney’s absence, but had moved out several days earlier. The cause of death had not yet been revealed. Next, I found the Cook County Sheriff’s Office website, filled out a visitor’s application, then thought of those who endured the rigors and expense of law school only to take a job defending people too poor to afford a lawyer.

  Chapter 2

  At Twenty-Sixth and California, the massive Cook County Jail covered almost a hundred acres and employed more than ten thousand civilian and law enforcement personnel. Conveniently attached to the jail was the Honorable George N. Leighton Criminal Court Building. On average, more than nine thousand men and women lived in the jail as guests of the county. Not long ago, a wrong turn resulted in a visitor spending thirty hours locked alone in the maximum-security visiting area. I didn’t anticipate this sort of adventure, but one never knew.

  Several months ago, during the murder investigation of Tamar’s cousin, a misunderstanding obliged me to stand in a long line outside the jail’s razor-wire fence, waiting to be processed into the bonding department. I recalled the stark reality of being given a number and put into a holding cell with eighty others awaiting their turn in bond court. Standing shoulder to shoulder with my cell mates, I was hit hard by the dehumanizing nature of penal systems, particularly the helplessness perpetuated by faceless bureaucrats controlling my fate. On the day I visited Kate McCall, it took forty minutes of waiting before I walked through a metal detector, got frisked, then showed my ID. “You’re not on the list,” the guard said. He appeared drowsy.

  “I’m an investigator here to see my client. Her public defender called on my behalf.”

  The guard sighed, pretended to look through the list again. “You’re not on the list.”

  I said loudly, “I have the right to see my client!” I showed him my investigator’s ID. “It’s an emergency.”

  The guard mumbled code-speak into his radio, then pointed at an undefined spot to my left and said, “Stand over there.”

  From my new location, I watched as a dozen or more visitors were ushered inside. A few minutes later, an African American sergeant appeared and asked me what the problem was.

  “I need to see my client, Kate McCall. She hired me as an investigator. Her public defender called to make sure I could see her today.”

  “Which public defender?”

  “Debbie Lopez.”

  The sergeant looked at something on the ground to his left and said, “What’s she look like?”

  “I’ve only spoken to her on the phone.”

  “Let me see some ID.”

  I handed over my driver’s license, my FCC card, my PI card, and for good measure, my firearms ID. He gave each card a long, hard look before giving them back.

  “Let him in with the next group,” he said to the guard then walked away before I had a chance to thank him.

  Half an hour later a group of us were herded into a hot, noisy room. A row of cubicles faced a wall of filthy Plexiglas. Round metal plates full of holes provided the avenue through which to speak. A group of women in tan jumpsuits filed in then dispersed to loved ones. Most of the communication was in the form of crying and swearing. A shapely, doe-eyed young woman with straight sandy blond hair tentatively approached the corresponding side of my cubicle and sat. She looked understandably sad. I guessed late teens, early twenties, and a bit below average height.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Jules Landau.”

  “How do, Mr. Landau. Ah thank you for comin’.”

  Her Appalachian lilt was unmistakable. “Kentucky?” I asked.

 
“Ahm tryin’ to lose the accent. I know I sound hillbilly-like. Feel free to correct my talkin’.”

  I remembered Tamar’s sex-kitten comment and agreed with The Partisan’s description. Despite the unforgiving nature of harsh fluorescent lighting, Kate still looked cute as hell. I couldn’t help but picture her with tight denim short-shorts and bare midriff. Her country-girl accent amplified her charm. But why did I feel a touch uncomfortable? “You sound fine, Kate. How can I help you?”

  “Ah want very much to hire you. My friend will give you ten thousand dollars up front.”

  “That’s a lot of money. The public defender has their own investigators—on the taxpayer’s dime.”

  “My friend said they’s all former criminals. He don’t trust them much.”

  “Do I get to meet your friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How will your friend pay me?”

  “Through Debbie.”

  “She agreed to this?”

  “Ahm sure we can figure somethin’ out.”

  In the cubicle next to mine, a man started screaming in Spanish. I waited for the tirade to devolve into sobbing.

  “How are you holding up?” I said.

  Kate closed her eyes, shook her head. “Fair to middlin’, I reckon.”

  “When did they arrest you?”

  “Three days ago. You want to hear my story?”

  “Not right now—”

  “Can’t say as I blame you, but I didn’t kill nobody, I swear. It was that doctor, I’ll bet. I had no reason to kill Jackie. I loved Jackie. She was the most wonderful person to me. All the evidence—”

  “Tomorrow, Kate. You can tell the whole story tomorrow when Debbie and I are both here. I only came to meet you and let you know I’ll do my best to make sure you get a fair—”