Thin Walls: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  In other words, they might take it and no questions would be asked. But if they could do that, so could I.

  “We’ll go tomorrow. I’ll meet you about three,” I said. “And you’ll play along with me, no matter what. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” he said, then bounced a little. “Hey, Smoke. Does it always feel this good to crack a case?”

  “I wish,” I said, and went inside.

  * * *

  The next morning, I awoke tangled in my sheets. The heat was up again, the radiator clicking away beside me. In my sleep, I’d continued the argument with Johnson and Sinkovich, screaming at them to get along, to find another way to handle their differences while we tried to solve this puzzle.

  As dawn filtered through my thin curtains, I realized that the dream was telling me something as well. There had to be another solution, a way to take care of this murderer without becoming murderers ourselves—and I had an idea how to do it.

  I got out of bed and grabbed my robe, feeling confident for the first time in days. I had a lot to set up, but I had a hunch my idea would work, given enough time and planning.

  * * *

  I took the kids to school to make up for Franklin covering for me the day before. After I had dropped them off, noting once again the large group of Stones in the playground and no Gang Intelligence Unit van, I drove north to Rogers Park. Once again, I needed Epstein’s help.

  I normally didn’t drop in on white people, particularly before ten in the morning, but this time, I thought it was best. If I called ahead, Epstein could refuse to see me or leave the house. This way, I might catch him by surprise.

  The neighborhood seemed even quieter than usual. Most of the houses seemed dark and empty with the men off to work and the children off to school.

  I parked in my usual place in front of the Weisman house. As I got out of the car, I reflected on how comfortable I was in this neighborhood versus Hucke’s neighborhood. Here, despite the attack, I didn’t feel the need to take my gun out of the glove box.

  The weather had warmed from the day before, but the clouds overhead were dark and menacing. The air smelled damp. I pulled my coat closer, went to the outside porch door and rang the bell.

  There were four candlesticks in the menorah, and they had dried wax drips down their sides. Mrs. Weisman was adding candles to mark the days of Hanukkah, trying to keep some semblance of normal, at least.

  Footsteps, then the curtain swished on the interior door before it opened. Mrs. Weisman saw me and waved as she unlocked the porch door.

  “Mr. Grimshaw,” she said with pleasure. “To what do we owe this honor?”

  “I need to see Saul, Mrs. Weisman.”

  Her smile faded. “He doesn’t want to see anyone right now.”

  “I know, but I need his help.”

  She put a hand on my arm. “I don’t think he’s in the position to help anyone, Mr. Grimshaw.”

  “Let’s let him decide that, shall we?”

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then led me inside.

  The house smelled of coffee. Yesterday’s Chicago Tribune sat unread on the dining-room table on top of a pile of mail. A man’s jacket hung on the back of one of the dining-room chairs. Mrs. Weisman picked it up by the collar as she went past.

  “He’s upstairs,” she said quietly. “He goes up there now when the bell rings.”

  Leaving his grandmother to take care of any problems that arise. He probably didn’t even realize the position he was putting her in. The phrase she had used the day before—a pity-party—rose again in my mind. That was the precise word for it. Right now, Saul Epstein couldn’t see past himself.

  “Thanks,” I said to Mrs. Weisman.

  She gave me a small, nervous smile, then pulled the upstairs door open and I looked at the narrow, old-fashioned steps. They had a carpet runner going down their middle, held in place by little gold dowels. The carpet was so old and thin that I could see the wood beneath it.

  These stairs creaked, and as I climbed, I braced myself for Epstein’s reaction. Somehow I would have to get through his anger, confusion, and fear, something his grandmother hadn’t been able to do.

  The ceiling was low on the second part of the staircase, following the slope of the roof. As I stepped into the hallway, I realized that most of the second story was a converted attic, with rooms extending all the way to the eaves. There was a musty smell up here, like old mothballs, and I suspected that no matter what Mrs. Weisman did, that smell wouldn’t leave.

  Three closed doors faced me—two on the long side of the hallway and one at the end. I knocked on the first. “Saul?”

  He didn’t answer, so I turned the glass knob and pushed the door open. The room was small and dark, with the shades pulled down and the bed made. It looked like no one had been in that room for a long time.

  Then I went to the next door and knocked on it. “Saul, I know you can hear me. Open up. I’m not going away.”

  There was no answer here either, but I heard a shuffling inside the room. I knocked again, then opened the door.

  The shades were drawn here as well, but the overhead light was on, the old-fashioned bulb sending yellow light throughout the room.

  Saul sat on the edge of a narrow, twin-sized bed, his feet barely touching the floor. His right arm was in a sling, which surprised me because I hadn’t heard of any damage there. A thick bandage covered his left eye and the shaved part of his skull. The rest of his face was varying shades of purple and black, but not as swollen as I would have expected.

  “Leave me alone,” he said without turning toward me.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I do need to talk to you.”

  “I told Gram I’m not seeing anyone.” His voice was flat.

  “I know,” I said. “I bullied my way past. I said it was important.”

  “You have the pictures. We’re even now.”

  Even? It took me a moment to realize what he meant. Those photographs in return for saving his life.

  “I’m not coming to make any kind of claim on you, Saul.”

  “Good.” He turned toward me, then gasped, and clutched his left side with his left hand. The broken ribs probably pained him more than the other injuries. “Get out.”

  “I want to give you a chance at a story, something that will—”

  “I can’t fucking see anything!” He screamed the words. “Think about it! How can I do a goddamn story if I can’t see?”

  “You can see,” I said. “You’re looking at me now.”

  “Human beings measure depth of field and perspective with both eyes. I only have one now. I’m not a photographer any more. So find someone else.”

  “I wasn’t coming for your photographic skills,” I said. “I came because you’re the only national reporter I know.”

  He turned away from me. “I’m not working right now.”

  “What about later?” I asked. “When do you plan to go back to work?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not thinking of that.”

  “So you’re living off your grandmother’s charity?”

  His lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll explain what’s going on and you can tell me if you want to participate.”

  “I don’t. Go away.”

  “This is an opportunity to make your name as a reporter, Saul. Maybe put you on the staff of a national paper like the New York Times.”

  He didn’t say anything. I took his silence as encouragement and walked deeper into the room, hunching over, until I reached a rocking chair so old that the paint had peeled off its arms. I sat, turning it so that I faced him.

  His single eye met mine, his expression both hostile and filled with pain. I did not look away.

  “The man whose body you found last month,” I said, “was one of a series of victims, all of whom died like he did, their bodies posed just as his was.”

  Epstein remained still. I figured
as long as he didn’t protest, I had his attention.

  “These deaths have two other features that link them together. All of the victims were black, and all of them had visited a certain neighborhood just before they died.” I lied about that last, since we still weren’t sure about some of the victims. “The homicide detective who has been working most of these cases and I have reason to believe that the local precinct captain might be involved, probably protecting the perpetrator.”

  Epstein’s single eyebrow went down into a frown. He winced, but leaned forward, his free hand bracing his sore ribs.

  “If we’re right, then an arrest won’t do any good. His friend will be back on the street within hours. The local papers won’t touch the story—”

  “Daily News might,” Epstein said. “They’re not fond of the machine.”

  Got him. I kept the smile off my face, and worked to keep the pleasure at his response out of my voice. “ ‘Might’ being the key word. We need someone who will cover it—or who will work the story until someone picks it up.”

  “What can an outside newspaper do?” Epstein asked.

  “Shed a little light on the darkness. Your photographs also show some police involvement in the cover-up. We have evidence of crimes of long-standing. If these were white victims, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. The cops would be taking care of it, and the machine would be behind them. But these killings have gone on for more than two years.”

  “Light on the darkness?” Epstein asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

  This was the crucial part of the argument. He had to understand what I was after. “Chicago is not a very popular place right now. With the Walker Report declaring the events at the Convention a police riot, the national mood is ripe to hear more about police corruption in Chicago. If we bring out the fact that the police are allowing a murderer with multiple homicides go free—maybe even collaborating with him because they’re not fond of the victims—the story will get national press.”

  “So?” Epstein said.

  “If it gets national press, outside pressure will be brought to bear on the city. They’ll have to prosecute this guy.”

  “Outside pressure from whom? Elaine—” His voice broke. He took two deep breaths and began again. “Elaine pretty much educated me on how much white people don’t care about black people.”

  “Well, black people care about black people,” I said, “and some organizations have national clout. The national NAACP and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference will jump all over this. And if we move it out of Chicago’s insular world, we give people like Jesse Jackson a chance to speak out as well. He wouldn’t dare if we just stayed within the city.”

  “Elaine said he’s an opportunist.”

  “That’s what we need right now,” I said. “Besides, there are white groups that will take up this cause, seeing it as theirs because of the events of last summer.”

  Epstein shook his head slightly. “This would have appealed to me two weeks ago.”

  “Why doesn’t it now?” I asked.

  “Because it sounds naïve. Newspapers don’t change the world.”

  “No,” I said. “Information does. Right now, this city has a stranglehold on information coming out of the Black Belt. No one really knows or cares what it’s like down there, and when the news does come out, it comes out in distorted ways, ways that make it seem like our fault that we live in terrible conditions or our children are killing each other in gang wars.”

  “You don’t want me to write about that, though.”

  “I’m asking you to help us stop a single person or a single group of people who are using murder to forward their own ends.”

  “Gangs do that.”

  “Yes, they do,” I said. “But a series of newspaper articles wouldn’t stop the Blackstone Rangers. It will stop a small group of white killers because those people can be put behind bars.”

  There was a light in his eye for the first time since I’d come up here. “I’m no good to you. I can’t take photographs—”

  “You already took the photographs,” I said. “A number of the ones you gave me from the Foster crime scene tell the entire story.”

  “Then what do you want from me?” he asked.

  “I want you to write this up in an article or series of articles. I want you to come with us tomorrow when we get the proof we need against these guys. And I want you to write about the victims, people who were just going through their daily lives when someone attacked them for being different.”

  “Like me and Elaine,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You asking because of me and Elaine?” he asked and this time, his voice had an edge to it.

  “I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of it, but that’s not all of it. I need the national connection.”

  He rubbed his left hand on his thigh, thinking. “I can barely move.”

  “You wouldn’t have to get out of the car.”

  “This is a lot of work to do on spec.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “But what else are you doing right now?”

  His neck got red. I couldn’t tell if the rest of his face colored as well, because the bruising was so bad on his skin.

  “All right,” he said after a long moment. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHEN I GOT HOME, I called Jane Sarton and asked her to meet me at Delevan’s house at one o’clock. Then I hung up and stared at the phone on my office desk for a long moment.

  I needed the help of at least one police officer, and only two knew of this case. Sinkovich, whom Johnson said I couldn’t trust because of his links to that neighborhood, and Johnson, who had asked me to rationally consider the unthinkable.

  I was more inclined to call Sinkovich. He seemed uncomplicated and sincere. But I wasn’t uncomplicated and I’d been known to be sincere when I was lying to get someone else to do something I wanted them to do. In the short time that I’d known him, he hadn’t been consistent. He’d been helpful and barbarous, and for a while, hadn’t understood the difference.

  I wasn’t sure if he understood the difference now, either.

  With a sigh, I sat down behind my desk and pulled the phone toward me. Its hard plastic shell felt like a weapon. My fingerprints coated the black surface, and there was an ink stain on the clear rotary dial. The choice I made now was the most important one of the day.

  If I were completely honest with myself, I would have to admit that Johnson had scared me. I understood his arguments; I would have to be a hypocrite not to. But his willingness to turn, so fast, to a solution that had nothing to do with law and order, that had everything to do with the kind of vigilantism that we were fighting, made me distrust him more than I distrusted Sinkovich.

  I needed to try this my way. If it didn’t work, then Johnson could find someone else to settle it his way.

  I picked up the receiver and called him. And as I listened to the phone ring, I wondered if I would have to apologize, even though I felt like I hadn’t done anything wrong. I wondered if Johnson would even speak to me after our encounter the day before.

  The dispatch answered and informed me that Johnson was out on a case. I told her it was urgent, but not an emergency, and that he should call. She promised to have him call back as soon as he got my message.

  I pressed the button and hung up, leaving the receiver beside my ear. I could call Sinkovich, but I knew, in that instant, that I wouldn’t. I knew that Johnson wanted this perp. I wasn’t so sure about Sinkovich.

  Maybe I would call him in the morning.

  * * *

  I knew it would take at least twenty-four hours to put all the pieces in place. I also knew that I needed to go over the notes one last time to make sure I wasn’t missing anything obvious.

  I spent the afternoon reviewing photographs and reading the police files.

  A little after three, Malcolm arrived, just like we had
arranged. He was still in a good mood, and he was dressed just like I had asked him to be—in dark colors, looking as sedate as he could.

  “You ready?” he asked at my office door.

  I closed the last of the files. “I guess.”

  “Tough case?” Apparently he noticed that I wasn’t smiling.

  “Yeah,” I said, and didn’t add anything else. “I’ll meet you in the living room.”

  He nodded his understanding and went down the hall. I opened my bottom drawer and took out my shoulder holster, slipping it on. Then I grabbed the light weight jacket I’d purposely left on the chair across from the desk and put it on.

  I didn’t bring any gloves. I wanted to have full use of my hands, and the cold wasn’t bad enough to slow me down.

  Earlier, I had cleaned the cash out of my wallet, not that I had much. I made certain that I had a twenty-dollar bill, though, the most I would contribute to the cause of the lost watch. I didn’t want to be tempted to spend more, and deny Jimmy a good hot meal or one of the Grimshaw kids a Christmas present.

  By prearrangement, Jimmy was staying with the Grimshaws until I dropped off Malcolm. I hoped we could get Grace Kirkland to teach the kids after school. Otherwise, I might have to hire someone to watch Jimmy from three until six or seven.

  When we reached my car, Malcolm got in the passenger side. I got in the driver’s side, closed the door, and then leaned across him, pulling the glove box open.

  His eyes widened when he saw my gun. “What the hell?”

  “I don’t like the neighborhood we’re going to,” I said, and stuck the gun in my shoulder holster. Then I started the car and we were off.

  Malcolm kept glancing at me as I drove south several blocks to Sixty-seventh and Blackstone. Most of the South Side, even the gang sections, had a vibrancy to them—a lot of people filling the streets, going about their business, even though many of them wore tams.

  But this neighborhood didn’t. In the approaching darkness of the late afternoon, it looked abandoned. On one side of the street, an empty lot was covered with brown grass and broken bottles. On the other, wood buildings leaned together, so old and fragile that it looked as if a good shout would knock them down.