“What can you tell me about the most recent renter?”
“I didn’t know anything about him at the time. He just came and went. The news said he was a doctor.”
“Do you remember the last time you saw Jackie?”
Manny shook his head. “I hadn’t seen her since before she left for California.”
“Is it common for residents to leave for months at a time?”
“Our residents are wealthy enough to follow the sun, if they choose.”
“You weren’t on duty when she returned from Palm Springs?”
“No. Lenny works the swing shift.”
“How can I talk to Lenny?”
“He comes in at three.”
“Was Jackie Whitney already living here back in ’92 when you started working?”
“No. My understanding is that she grew up in this building but moved out when she started college. After her parents died in a horrible car wreck, she moved back in. That would’ve been around 2002 or so.”
“No highly publicized fight over inheritance?”
“She was an only child.”
“I noticed you called Jackie Whitney by her first name.”
“Everyone did.”
“You were friends?”
“Like I said, she was my friend. And yes, she tipped well.”
“Do you remember any strangers hanging around?”
“Nah. If anyone is loitering in the lobby, we ask if they have business here or know someone. If they won’t leave, we call the police.”
“But how the heck do you remember who lives here and who’s a guest? Can you really memorize everyone’s face and name?”
Manny smiled. “Aha!” he said. “The secret to being a good doorman. Actually, it’s not nearly as difficult as it might seem. You’d be surprised at how quickly your brain builds up a storage of faces and who they belong to. Kids, cousins, friends, everything gets associated. And you develop an instinct about who belongs here. Face it, the building is all rich white people. So their friends will most likely be like them.”
“But not always, as in the case of Kate McCall.”
“Exactly. And those are the kind of associations you remember the easiest, because they’re so different.”
“Could you recognize who Jackie’s friends were? Enemies?”
Manny sort of laugh-scoffed. “The ones that visited the most often, I assumed were friends of some type. As for enemies, I couldn’t tell you.”
“No, of course not. But if there was a long-standing feud with a neighbor, do you think you would know about it?”
Manny considered the scenario. “It’s possible, but I can’t think of a single example. The wealthy tend to isolate themselves in their own little worlds. Gloria is the exception, but there are longtime residents that I have no memory of ever seeing say so much as ‘hello’ to each other.”
“How about strange behavior? Did Kate McCall act any different in the days leading up to Jackie Whitney’s death?”
Manny shook his head. “Like I said, I didn’t know her.”
I didn’t think he wanted to talk about it anymore. I said, “It must’ve been a tremendous shock when Jackie died.”
Manny swallowed hard, blinked a few times, then ran the back of his hand across his eyes. “It’s been barely two weeks. I still can’t believe it. But I can’t dwell on life’s curveballs. The residents depend on me. They need a reliably smiling face.”
A UPS man wheeled in a cart stacked eye-high with parcels. He greeted Manny as if previously acquainted. Something about Manny’s single-mindedness compelled me to stay and observe. The delivery driver unloaded the packages onto the floor in front of the doorman’s desk, where Manny methodically arranged them. After saying goodbye to the driver, Manny opened a secret door that blended in perfectly with the wall. Inside the room was a chain-link pen. One by one, Manny phoned residents, verifying their expectation of a delivery, then placed the deliveries in the pen before locking the secret door and returning to his station.
“Do you think anyone would mind if I spoke to the uncooperative concierge?”
“I, uh, I’m sure nobody would care. I’m sure nobody would notice. I certainly don’t care.”
“I detected the slightest reluctance. The uncooperative part won’t be mentioned, scout’s honor.”
“Oh, no, no. Freddie is an interesting…guy. That’s all. Please, go talk to him.”
I thanked Manny for his time then headed toward the concierge station. Freddie was hunched over the desk scanning a map with two others. Three more people waited their turn for the concierge’s attention. Freddie, the interesting guy, could wait another day.
Chapter 4
I stood on the pedestrian walkway behind Oak Street Beach, leaning against a tree while jotting down observations on a small notepad. Frownie had always told me to write down my thoughts after an interview. “Always, always include alleged statements of fact,” he used to say. But I resisted at first. Something about carrying a notepad and pen hit me as shabby and obsolete, never mind uncool. Then I thought I’d give it a try, if only to see if I stopped getting up in the middle of the night to write things down. Frownie had died several months ago, at age ninety-one.
“Ikaria,” I said to retired police detective Jimmy Kalijero when he answered the phone.
“What?”
“Ikaria. The Greek island.”
“I know what it is. What about it?”
“That’s where you should retire. They live forever on Ikaria. Don’t you want to live forever?”
“What do you want, Landau?”
“Colorful” was the word I used when referring to Detective Jimmy Kalijero’s relationship with my family. He had busted my father for running an illegal gambling operation when I was a teenager and still carried around some guilt for the harsh sentence Dad received. Since I’d become a private investigator, Kalijero had assisted me in three investigations—albeit grudgingly. I dared say our relationship had evolved into one of dubious respect.
“How are you, Jimmy?”
“What the fuck do you want, Landau?”
“How about a game of backgammon? Or what do you call it? Tavli?”
“Why?”
“I thought we were friends.”
Kalijero expelled a loud, phony laugh. “When have we ever gotten together when it wasn’t about a case you were working on, friend?”
“You’re right, and I’m sorry about that. C’mon, give me a game of backgammon. You’re retired, for chrissake! You got nothing else to do!”
Hearing only several seconds of breathing meant I had a chance. “You know, why not?”
“Seriously?”
“Sure, Landau. This is our chance to bond. We can become real pals.”
Despite the unmistakable sarcasm, Kalijero agreed to meet me at Penguin House, where I found him sitting at a four-top with a backgammon board set up and nothing to eat or drink. His disrespect needed attention.
“I’ll be right back,” I said then got in line to order. Considering Kalijero had undergone prostate surgery the previous April, he looked rather perky for a working-class icon well into his sixties. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair, open silk shirt, and gold Parthenon necklace still gave him a slightly heroic flavor. I returned with two cups of tea.
“What’s this?” Kalijero said.
“Mountain tea. It’s Greek.”
“I don’t like tea.”
I took a seat. “If you take up a table, you’ve gotta buy something. And you’re taking up a four-top when there’s only two of us.” Kalijero didn’t respond. I said, “Okay, you’re right. I got another murder case. But this one I know you’ll be glad I told you about.” Kalijero took a die from his hand and dropped the other on my side of the board. I said, “You don’t want to hear about the murder?”
Kalijero rolled a four then looked at me. I rolled a one. He moved two of his red checkers. I rolled a five and a three. Kalijero cloaked me in his oppressive gaz
e.
“What are you waiting for?” Kalijero said. I ignored him. Seconds later he said, “You don’t know how to play.”
“It’s been a while—”
“Bullshit. You don’t know how to play. You roll a five and a three there’s no hesitation what your move is. Admit it. The only reason you called was to talk about a case.”
I had nothing. “You got me, Jimmy. Busted. Is it really that big a deal?”
Kalijero had a way of staring I attributed to single, childless men unable to suppress the urge to shame a younger man. His vibe touched a nerve but I didn’t ponder the psychological implications.
“Just say what the hell you’re thinking already!” I said.
Kalijero began taking pieces off the backgammon board. I watched until he finished putting everything in its designated slot. I stood to leave. He said, “So who’s dead?”
I sat back down. “Jackie Whitney.”
“The auto-parts gal? What do you got to do with that?”
“The defendant hired me. Her lawyer and I are sitting down with her at the jail tomorrow.”
“You doing pro bono work now?”
“She’s got a benefactor. Have you been following the case?”
Kalijero shrugged, scratched his chin. “I know what’s been reported. She left town, rented out her apartment, came back, got murdered. The judge sealed a lot of the court documents, you know.”
“Why? We’re not talking national security here.”
“Family privacy.”
“Since when is that a reason to seal an investigation?”
Back to the disapproving glare. “If you’re a famous Chicago family going back a hundred years, that’s what happens.”
I guess it was a dumb question. Kalijero scratched his chin again. I said, “So whaddya think?”
He looked at me, then away. “I don’t know.”
“You want me to keep you updated?”
“I don’t know,” he said again then aimed his vision far afield, into some mental wonderland reserved for a big-city cop with forty-plus years of experience embedded into his awareness.
“Say what you’re thinking, Jimmy. Tell me to go fuck myself, but just say it already.”
Kalijero looked at me. “I miss it,” he finally said. “Investigating. I miss the hell out of it. Now get out of my sight.”
—
From the sidewalk, the view of my apartment included a mound of black fur smashed flat against the window facing Halsted Street. Once I got inside, Punim observed me from her window perch.
“Miss me?” I said.
“Were you gone?” she replied.
I grabbed a bag of outrageously authentic tortilla chips—cooked in the carniceria that kept Punim well stocked with livers, hearts, kidneys, and gizzards—then collapsed with my laptop into my lounge chair. It wasn’t a deluxe swivel-rocker like Dad’s, but a privilege nonetheless. I reclined forty-five degrees into a world of rhythmic crunching and thought about Kalijero. Police work was the only life he had ever known. I’d assumed that he would always enjoy dipping his toe in the waters of crime investigation. Perhaps I was being selfish. Maybe I shouldn’t bother Kalijero. Maybe it would be healthier for him to retire in peace. But the thought of leaving him alone unsettled me.
My angle of repose came with the inherent threat of drowsiness. Nickels formed on my eyelids. I thought about Manny the doorman’s pleasant demeanor and his infectiously positive attitude. People felt good being around the intelligent, insightful Manny. It was easy to see him as the building’s shoulder to cry on. My doorman, my therapist. As the nickels were becoming half-dollars, Debbie Lopez called.
“Hi, Debbie.”
“Okay, Jules,” she responded amid the general sounds of shuffling papers and desk clutter. “How about seven?”
“Where?”
“I’m coming from Twenty-Sixth and Cal. I live northwest.”
“Café Schmaltz. Logan Square. Know it?”
“What’s the address?”
“California to Milwaukee, sharp right, down a block, on your right.”
“Got it.”
Chapter 5
Compared to the gradual reawakening of many Chicago neighborhoods since the 1980s, Logan Square’s gentrification seemed to have happened at whiplash speed. No sooner had the artists started moving in than young professionals showed up, rehabbing commenced, and developers went on a buying spree. Industrial warehouses were converted to luxury lofts. Century-old brick and stone churches with handcrafted amber glass made way for condos and mixed-use projects.
I arrived at Café Schmaltz about ten minutes early and looked around. The youthful faces and corresponding jeans and T-shirts told me Debbie was not among the crowd. Purple and violet gradients combined amazingly with the red, green, and blue mid-century modernist furniture. But it was the coffee shop’s devotion to the warm, rich sounds of vinyl LPs that sealed the deal for Café Schmaltz.
As was my custom, I sat at a two-top against the back wall. A copy of The Partisan lay on the table next to mine. I read a few paragraphs of an article about Mayor Emanuel’s outsourcing of the city treasurer’s office to a private equity firm, then tossed the paper onto an empty chair. Something about coffee shops made me think about Frownie. Sometimes Frownie and I would be sitting around and he’d casually say something that only later on would strike me as intellectually profound. One time he said everyone’s face had a story to tell and the best investigators knew how to find clues in those stories. I looked around. A twenty-something female sat by herself, sipping coffee, eagerly scanning Café Schmaltz. Something about her told me she was new to the city. She had that confident, optimistic look of one starting afresh after finally summoning the courage to leave childhood behind. From now on, life would be new, exciting, and romantic. Yeah, right.
A few minutes later, a stocky woman about five-five with short black hair walked in. The bulging leather messenger bag slung over her shoulder was a dead giveaway, although her gray skirt-suit and white blouse would’ve been enough. I waved. She walked over.
“Hi, Debbie.”
She either didn’t respond or I didn’t hear her as she struggled to liberate the bag and let it drop. It hit the floor with a loud thwack.
“What do you want?” Debbie said.
Her question caught me off guard until I realized she had taken a couple of steps toward the counter. “Oh, uh, soy mocha.” I moved an arm to my back pocket, but it was too late. She returned with our coffees and sat.
“Okay, first thing,” Debbie said. “How do you operate? What’s your initial approach toward an investigation?”
“Depends on the investigation.”
“How about the investigation you just got hired for?”
“Everyone’s a suspect.”
“That’s what I thought,” Debbie said, not sounding pleased. “Let me be clear. We’re not actors in a crime drama eliminating suspects one by one until the crime is solved. Presenting convincing, solid, reasonable doubt is our number-one priority.”
“What’s our number-two priority?”
“Presenting convincing, solid, reasonable doubt. Do you want to hear our third priority?”
“I think I got it.”
“Okay, the second thing. I don’t care if Kate is paying you, I’m in charge of this investigation.” We stared at each other.
“Fine with me, boss.”
“Third thing. The judge sealed the case. So you can’t talk about it. Info will leak out, but it can’t come from you.” Her tone bordered on condescending.
“Check.”
She began pulling files and other stuff from her bag. “The preliminary hearing is set for July seventh. Did you see Kate McCall?”
“Yes.”
“What did you notice about her appearance?”
“On the small side but healthy looking. Somewhat depressed.”
Debbie opened a folder. “Whitney was beaten to death on the couch with a hammer. On the table,
two empty wine bottles and one glass. Only the victim’s prints were found on the bottles and wineglass. Another glass was found in the kitchen sink. Blood alcohol level 0.139 percent, which means she was pretty drunk. The couch was in the living room, which looked out over the lake. This is a five-thousand-square-foot apartment, remember. Her body was found in the master bedroom at the opposite end of the apartment, sealed in a plastic garment bag and hidden on the highest shelf of the walk-in closet. The closet had a sliding ladder to access the top shelves.”
I said, “How big was Jackie Whitney?”
“Five-six. One-thirty.”
“I’ll assume she wasn’t drinking alone. Could a woman with Kate McCall’s build, likely tipsy from wine, stuff one hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight into a bag, drag it to the other end of the apartment, then deadlift it up a ladder and jam it into a shelf, without someone helping her?”
“A deep shelf. The body was pushed back as far as it would go. The evidence against her is arguably compelling, but fishy. I think the cops jumped the gun. They’re gambling that she’ll hand over an accomplice.”
“Who found the body?”
“McCall.”
“That’s right. She had a key. They were buddies, although it’s hard to believe they would’ve even known each other.”
“Believe it. They were very good friends. Who told you about the key?”
“I had a nice conversation with the doorman at Jackie Whitney’s building.”
Debbie’s eyes opened wider. “Did he tell you how Kate McCall and Jackie Whitney met?”
“Kate told me.”
“What did she say?”
“McCall said she worked a few blocks away, at a specialty grocer for people who don’t mind paying fifty bucks for a bottle of olive oil. Whitney befriended her over mushrooms.”
Debbie started writing something on a piece of paper then double-checked the information against a page in the folder. “I want you to interview these two,” she said. “Linda Napier and George Mason. Supposedly George was a close friend of Jackie Whitney. I’m not sure about Linda.”
“What about the apartment where the renter dumped Jackie’s dog? Were the residents there interviewed?”
Doubt in the 2nd Degree Page 3
