“Tell me, Brookie. Do you really think I owe you because my father squealed about your little side job breaking thumbs?”
“Ah, you talked to Kalijero. You’re goddamn right you owe me. You’re his blood, and now you want to ruin my chance to make up for all that lost pay? Ten extra years on patrol?”
“Don’t forget all that potential thumb-breaking pay too. How did you track me down so quick?”
“What did I say, Landau? Yesterday, what did I say? Stop the poking around.”
“No, you didn’t. You said stop looking for reasonable doubt.”
“You know what I mean, asshole. You was at that broad’s building yesterday, talking to that doorman.”
“How did you know that?”
“Same way I knew you were here. We’re watching you, Landau. It ain’t just me. Just leave it alone, for chrissake.”
“Okay, Brookie, level with me. I’ll pay you to turn on DeWeldt. How’s he connected to Jackie Whitney’s murder?”
“He isn’t connected to any murder.”
“Then why does he want to see Kate McCall take the rap?”
“Because she’s guilty. Doesn’t matter anyway. My job is to make sure you stop your poking around. If you start behaving maybe DeWeldt will give you a little present. You know?”
Brookstone rubbed the tips of his fingers together. I inspected his large face. His chin looked as if all the bones in my hand would shatter against it. I said, “Talk to Kalijero. He’ll explain I don’t let threats stop me from pursuing a case.”
Brookstone sighed. “I’m gonna tell you one more time to quit it. After that, you could really get hurt.”
Brookstone turned to leave then reversed course and gave me a left jab square in the nose. Even before he connected, I sensed him holding back, that he intentionally avoided crushing my face with that concrete block of a fist. Either way, I found myself sitting alone on the sidewalk in broad daylight on a beautiful day, my eyes teary from intense pain throughout my nose and eye sockets.
I drove home then spent an hour on the couch, ice pack on face, cat in lap. Thanks to freakishly soft cartilage, my nose wasn’t broken, just red and swollen. More ice-time was probably a good idea, but I had someplace to go.
Chapter 14
The Attorney Registration & Disciplinary Commission was located just a few blocks from Henry DeWeldt’s law office on East Randolph Street, and was where the clerk’s file room database would contain all the commission’s disciplinary decisions. I searched by law firm and came up with eighty-three initial complaints of fraudulent or deceptive activity filed against attorneys at DeWeldt, Van Buren & Associates. More surprising than seeing forty percent of the law firm represented was that the board found none of the complaints as having enough merit to advance to the next disciplinary level. I looked into ten individual cases and found an amazing coincidence. All victims were elderly residents of various senior housing facilities all owned by a corporate entity called Contentment. I walked out of the commission’s office, wondering how Jackie Whitney’s death could be connected to a scumbag law firm and corrupt commission members. Who among that crowd lost their temper within arm’s reach of a hammer?
I went straight to the Cook County Jail, this time with my state identification. Apart from waiting in long lines, the ID worked much better than my private investigator’s ID had, and even allowed me to obtain a private interview room. I’d never felt so official.
Kate looked tired and depressed but managed to flash me a small smile. “How are you holding up?” I asked.
“Ah-ite, I guess. Your nose is all swelled up. You got a head cold?”
“Allergies. Listen, I’ve got kind of a strange question. It has to do with Jackie’s friendship with the concierge in her building.”
Kate nodded. “Yeah, I reckon I know what you’re gettin’ at.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because Jackie done told me folks was givin’ her strange looks when she was talkin’ to Freddie. And she knowed some would go a-gossipin’, ’specially ’cause Freddie sometimes helped tote packages up to her apartment.”
“They were good friends, right? Nothing beyond friendship?”
Kate closed her eyes, nodded her head several times. “I can assure you, Mr. Landau, they was just friends, nothin’ more.”
“Okay,” I said then held up the front page of the Post. Kate leaned in, putting her face close to the Plexiglas. I watched her brown eyes bounce around the page. Despite the fact she was in jail, her skin looked clear and bright and her hair had a lovely shine.
I said, “It’s really just a feature story about me helping defend you.”
“Them cartoons say it all,” Kate said, wiping a tear off her cheek. “I’m just dumb hillbilly trash. So I must be guilty.”
“I know that’s not true,” I said, her guilt or innocence now beside the point as I succumbed to my overwhelming attraction. “And when you’re proven innocent, the whole city will know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Landau,” Kate said, then smiled sweetly.
“But now I need to ask you a question,” I said. “Do you remember Jackie dating a man named Henry DeWeldt?”
“There was a Henry, but I don’t know his last name.”
“What did he look like?”
“White-haired gent. Older but plucky. Still had a spring in his step.”
“What did Jackie tell you about him?”
“She never done speak of him, not really. Only, ‘I’m a-goin’ out with Henry tonight,’ or ‘Henry’s a-takin’ me to the opera.’ ”
The disappointment hit hard. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to hear. “But Jackie never confided in you about him? Maybe said some pretty unflattering things about the kind of lawyer he was?”
“No, sir, Mr. Landau. Like I said, Jackie didn’t never speak of Henry in no personal way. Although—” Kate stopped. She stared up and to the right as she tried to recall something. “She told me one morning when she come into the grocery that they done had a big ol’ fight. She wouldn’t tell me nothin’ what they were fightin’ over, but she plumb wore herself out tellin’ me what a corrupt piecer shit that Henry was.”
“Think hard. What was the basis of the rant? Was there some conclusion she came to?”
“Well, I do remember her a-sayin’ somethin’ like, ‘Men are lyin’ pigs, can’t trust ’em, I hate ’em.’ That kinda talkin’.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Um—not long before she was fixin’ to go to Palm Springs.”
“Around Christmas.”
“Yes, sir. In fact, they was at a Christmas party the night before she come into the grocery and chewed my ear.”
“If I only knew what they were arguing about,” I said out loud.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Landau. I wish I could tell you more about that fight, but I just don’t got nothin’ else.”
I was about to tell Kate not to worry about it, then something clicked and I remembered the magazine advertisement on the coffee table in Jackie’s apartment.
—
From an Internet listing I found the downtown bridge club with the innocent name Senior Tricks. Stopping there would make me late for Debbie’s meeting, but I didn’t care. The wealth that the near north address implied did not prepare me for the nineteenth-century Renaissance revival country house, once owned by the McCormick family and now an exclusive gaming club for the wellborn Chicagoan. Bridge was played in one of the “staterooms.” Lavishly decorated in the gothic style, the walls featured hangings of gilded leather, bolts of sapphire-blue French silk, and an enormous equestrian portrait of an English king.
Amid this royal backdrop, silver-haired citizens, mostly women, huddled around wooden felt-covered gaming tables. Seated alongside many of them were much younger men and women, some looked to be in their twenties. I recognized Manny’s friend Gloria standing at one of the tables, observing the action.
“Hello,” said a woman with the na
me tag Lois. “Do you have an elderly parent looking for a bridge partner?”
“I have an elderly parent but he lacks the patrician bloodline and he’s slipping fast up here.” I pointed at my head.
“The aristocratic connotation is really just a relic of the past, assuming one has the finances to join. And some of our members are also in various stages of dementia.”
“They can still play a complicated game like bridge with dementia?”
“They’ve been playing their whole lives. The oldest memories are often the last to go.”
I nodded, genuinely fascinated by this fact, then introduced myself and handed her a card. “I’m investigating a pattern of fraud perpetrated against the elderly.”
“Oh, that’s terrible! I hate hearing such stories.”
“I have a hunch that this club is used to fish for potential marks.” I showed her the list of names I had written down at the disciplinary commission. “Everyone on this list has filed a complaint against the same law firm. Do you know if any of these people are part of this club?”
Lois looked them over. “I recognize several names.”
“I see Gloria is here,” I said.
“Oh, you know Gloria?” Lois pointed to the name Seymour Steinberg on the list. “That’s Gloria’s husband. Sy passed away a few years ago.”
“Gloria and I have a mutual friend. Maybe I’ll talk to her about this later.”
“She’s here almost every day. She’s an unofficial teacher and coach. Everyone adores her.”
“It’s still a pretty posh club, eh?”
“Traditionally, yes. Many of the members have famous surnames. But the demographics are working against the club. The board is trying to recruit younger players, although the game isn’t as popular as it used to be.”
“Younger players from the same social class.”
“As I said, it’s not about class anymore. If you have the money, you can join.”
“That’s nice. It’s all about the game.”
“It really is. In fact, if you observed the interactions, you would notice how the game of bridge itself is a kind of equalizer. You’ll also notice the members are not dressed as you would imagine people of their backgrounds would dress for a place like this. It’s more important to be comfortable than covered in clunky jewelry.”
“Those younger people sitting with them—new recruits? Grandchildren?”
Lois laughed. “You’ve heard of golf pros? Those are bridge pros partnering with their benefactors. It’s very common nowadays at fancy clubs like this.”
“Have you noticed people coming here not to play bridge? I mean, they just want to talk to a certain member?”
“Uh, yes, that seems to be happening more and more. The members give us their names in advance, so we allow them to sit and wait. But a game can never be interrupted.”
“Do they leave cards? Do you know where they’re from?”
“No, but they’re usually well-dressed men with briefcases. I assume they’re money managers or salesmen of some type.”
I thanked Lois for her time then headed to Penguin House, where public defender Debbie Lopez would be waiting.
—
“You sick or something?” Debbie said, referencing my nose. “You better not be contagious.”
“How does this sound: Jackie Whitney was dating a high-powered lawyer named Henry DeWeldt. She threatened to blow the whistle on some of DeWeldt’s very unethical activities. That’s why Henry had her killed.”
Clearly underwhelmed, Debbie said, “Care to share some evidence?”
“Eighty-three complaints in the last year alone filed against DeWeldt attorneys with the ARDC. Not a single one advanced beyond the inquiry board. I took a sampling of ten cases. All were charges of fraud from elderly plaintiffs.”
“None of the charges stuck, you just said that.”
“But that’s the point. DeWeldt must have cronies on the commission getting payoffs.”
“Jules, I can’t just make up a story and claim it’s a motive for someone to kill Jackie Whitney.”
“You asked me if I was sick. No, DeWeldt hired someone to warn me about looking for reasonable doubt and punched me in the nose to prove he meant it.”
For the first time, I saw Debbie smile. “No shit?”
“It’s true. And I’m kind of shocked you believed me so quickly.”
“What? You think this kind of intimidation is unheard of in Chicago? Someone with your bloodlines—”
“You know about—”
“Of course I know. You come from a family of political hacks and petty hoodlums starting with Great-Granddaddy Morris.”
“Why, thank you, Deb, my cup runneth over.”
Another laugh, only this time louder. “Oh, c’mon, have a sense of humor. What else do you know?”
“What about DNA tests on those skin shavings, or whatever they were?”
“The state’s attorney isn’t interested.”
“Then shouldn’t we file a motion to have it done independently?”
“Who’s going to pay for it?”
“Why doesn’t the state want to do it?”
“You should know by now about shoddy police work and overzealous prosecutors. If they think they have a good enough case as it is, why jeopardize it with risking someone else’s DNA being at the crime scene?”
“How much does it cost?”
“Around eighty-five hundred to get the job done right.”
“I thought costs of DNA testing had come down.”
“They have for a single test. But you also have to take into account multiple rounds of testing on different pieces of evidence.”
I swore loudly. “The renter, Kessler, didn’t sign the visitors’ logbook at Jackie Whitney’s building during the coroner’s murder window. But I still want to see any CCTV video.”
“I’ll bet the cops didn’t bother checking the surveillance video, just like they often don’t follow up on leads.”
“But the CCTV is mentioned in the police report.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not like crime dramas where detectives view dozens of hours of footage hoping to see a car pass by. Unless they’re sure the camera was pointed at the crime scene, they might just lie and claim to have looked at surveillance video. And if the video was going to be marked as evidence, the building wouldn’t have to keep the video on their server. See if your doorman knows how long they archive video.”
“Jackie Whitney’s friend Linda Napier was dating Kessler. She swears he was paying his rent but she can’t say whether Kessler returned to the apartment after move-out day—during the time Jackie Whitney could’ve been murdered. She seemed nervous, as if afraid of incriminating someone.”
“Incriminating herself or Kessler?”
“Maybe both. And I met Jackie Whitney’s son. He’s pretty much sold on Kate McCall’s guilt.”
“Okay, keep digging on that lawyer and Kessler and Linda Napier. Sounds like they might have something to tell us—in their own way. Leave the son alone unless something comes up.”
“You’re in a good mood,” I said.
“You getting punched in the snout—that says this lawyer is scared. You might be on to some legitimate reasonable doubt. We can get Kate out of there.”
“But who’s the killer?”
For the third time, Debbie laughed, although this time it sounded forced. “Don’t care. Doesn’t matter. Someone else’s job.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Doesn’t justice matter? An innocent woman is dead.”
I’d hit the proverbial nerve. “Hey!” Debbie snapped. “Don’t lecture me about justice! Ricardo Martinez. Know him? That’s what I thought. Doing life without parole for murder. I decided to look into it and found out the eyewitness was legally blind and not wearing his glasses. And I had a taped confession of the killer. It still took me two years to get this guy out of prison. That’s justice, setting an innocent person free. That’s my job. T
he other side’s job is to put the right people behind bars without fucking it up. But they fuck it up a lot more than anyone realizes.”
Debbie collected her belongings and walked out.
Chapter 15
Brookstone leaned against a parking meter with his arms crossed. “I take it back about having anything against you, Landau,” Brookstone said. “This whole business with your old man. You shouldn’t take it so personally. In fact, I even have fond memories of your old man, before he screwed me over. He was kind of a nice guy for a two-bit con.”
“Punching someone in the nose is a little hard not to take personally, don’tcha think?”
Brookstone nodded his head in an exaggerated display of penance. “You’re right. And I’m sorry about that. I was just trying to get a message across. I really don’t want to hurt you or nothing, but we know you was meeting with the public defender in there. That tells us you’re still snooping. Okay, we give. How much do you want so you walk away?”
He asked the question without the least bit of cynicism or mockery. “I swear, corruption must become part of a cop’s DNA as soon as they put on the badge.”
Brookstone stared at me, shook his head. “Why you gotta make things so hard for yourself?”
“Why be a cop, Brookie, if you’re just a criminal at heart?”
Tiny spasms resurfaced along the side of Brookstone’s head. “I hear your old man’s got that brain rot disease.”
His words inspired loathing, but it was his grin that truly inflamed me. “An innocent person is in jail,” I said.
“Pretty soon you’ll be changing your old man’s diapers, won’t you?”
Like a fool, I stepped toward him. Men approached from both peripheries. I stepped back, bumping into another guy. I should’ve been scared but what could happen on a sidewalk crowded with pedestrians?
“Why don’t you take a ride with us,” Brookstone said. A sedan had pulled up.
“And if I say no? You’re all gonna beat me up or shoot me right here in the middle of the sidewalk around all these people?”
Laughter from around me. “Just go for a ride,” Brookstone said.
Doubt in the 2nd Degree Page 11
