“Yes, sir,” Dmitri said into the phone as his two detectives sat down. “Well, the two men I’m entrusting this to have just stepped in.” The phone call ended quickly.
“Mornin’ Chief,” Campanelli and Williams greeted alike. It was returned somewhat gruffly, though Frank sensed that his boss’s annoyance was not with them.
“That was the mayor,” Dmitri began, “telling me that he wants this human trafficking network put out of business.”
“Of course,” Frank agreed as he lit up a cigarette.
“We all know that Jimmy Antony is one of Phil Ignatola’s men. That’s old news,” Vanek sat forward and waved his hand. “What’s new is that this is the first time we’ve been able to make the connection to someone of authority within the trafficking organization. I’m sure you’d both love to take Ignatola down.”
“Damn skippy, Chief,” Campanelli uttered and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“Well, unfortunately, as Antony has disappeared, we haven’t had the chance to interrogate him and make the connection. He was sprung too early by his lawyer,” Dmitri continued. “I want you two to lean on the lawyer.”
“Beritoni,” Frank put in.
“Correct. Most likely, he won’t give us anything, but we have to make the effort. He might spill something.”
“Okay, Chief,” Campanelli agreed as he tapped ash into the tray on the desk. “I take it since the mayor’s involved, this is now our priority?”
“This is not only your top priority, but the Sentinel Division’s as well. I want you to pull any of your VC detectives off of anything that’s not pressing and find Jimmy Antony. If we can make a connection to Ignatola, we want him, too.”
Other than the idea of distracting one of his Violent Crimes Division detectives from a murder case, especially Albert Kelly’s, Frank agreed with Vanek. He and Marcus left the office and walked to Campanelli’s waiting cruiser.
Frank called out the address of Taylor, Taylor & Packey, the law firm they were to visit. The cruiser responded, backing out of the parking space and turning north onto State Street.
Marcus thought about the address. “Isn’t that right across the street from the old Art Institute?”
“Yep.”
Michigan Avenue featured many ancient buildings, primarily on the west side of the street. Most were condemned, near collapse and uninhabitable, spared by reclamation for their materials because they were so old and small in comparison to other younger, more richly constructed skyscrapers. The east side of the street featured mostly unattended parks and other cultural attractions which had long ago closed. The Art Institute of Chicago was one of these structures. It had been mothballed by the city, shuttered and mostly forgotten.
As the car turned onto South Michigan Avenue, Frank stared with wonder at the mostly empty structures to their left. The once busy avenue was broken up by the occasional victim of fire, leaving a rotted black hulk to hunch between the others like a bad tooth.
The building at One Twenty-Two and its immediate neighbors were spared such tragedy, mostly from luck but also by the fact that there were tenants rich enough to keep it going. Taylor, Taylor & Packey was One Twenty-Two’s chief benefactor. The law firm was its only tenant, though they could not put the entire building to use.
Campanelli took over the driving once the cruiser approached the corner of Adams and South Michigan. It was here that he made a left turn and parked the car in the perpetual shade of buildings. The detectives got out and made their way back to the corner and turned north. There was not much foot traffic. The sidewalk bore only a couple of dozen people as far as Frank could see without manipulating his vision. About the same number of vehicles rolled by on the street. As they approached the building’s entrance, Frank noticed the attention Marcus was giving to the old Art Institute on the other side of the street.
“Something?” Frank asked, knowing of the man’s military-ingrained instincts.
“I was just thinking it’s a shame to see it like that,” Williams commented with a nostalgic air.
Frank stopped and took a moment to take in the sight of the abandoned landmark. The great green lions which stood guard over the pigeon-infested steps had seen better days. Like the thick wooden panels that covered the large windows and doors of the Institute’s main entrance, they had been spray painted uncountable times with meaningless graffiti. Campanelli, not a native Chicagoan, still felt sympathy for the place, for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, located in his home town of New York City, had not only suffered the same fate as its Chicago counterpart, but had preceded it in death by almost five years.
Without saying a word, Campanelli gave a short, solemn nod and left the landmark across the way to disappear behind the overgrowth of wild grass, weeds and trees that ruled the concrete divider between northbound and southbound lanes. Staring at the abandoned bit of culture had reminded him too much of home, a place where he had lived another life.
Frank gave the heavy revolving front door a push, stepping into it and virtually popping out on the other side. Williams quickly followed. Their shoes sent echoes of footsteps throughout the great lobby, the white marble floors and walls of which made their presence seem insignificant. Overwhelmed by the beauty of the ancient architecture, both men were drawn beyond the great marble columns to the source of the room’s natural light; a vaulted glass ceiling. Simultaneously, they craned their necks to take in the view above. The rest of the building, all twenty floors of it, framed the skylight as it stretched to the heavens.
“Wow,” Williams whispered. The sound left his throat and was swallowed up by the greatness of their spacious surroundings. Nonetheless, his partner heard him.
“Yeah,” Frank croaked, his eyes transfixed upward.
There was not another living soul on the street level, though, unlike the rest of the world beyond the glass doors, the immense room was well-maintained and spotless.
Campanelli was the first to snap out of it. “Come on,” he said, giving Williams a tug.
They found a sign that indicated the main offices of the lawyers within. Each partner held court upon an entire level.
The pair entered the elevator and selected Beritoni’s floor, the eighteenth. The ride was slow but smooth, lacking the creaking, hitchy rides of the less well-maintained buildings in the city.
Once on the eighteenth, the doors rumbled open and the detectives exited. Their arrival drew the brief attention of two well-dressed and attractive women to their left, seated at desks just on the other side of glass walls. Along their right ran another wall of elegant marble, recessed at points where Frank assumed that office doors would be found.
Stepping curiously forward, Frank saw that he was correct and before they had intruded very far, the first office door opened. A tall young brunette in a white dress suit came out to greet them, though there was something odd about her movements. Frank dismissed it as she approached to speak.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” she said with a voice as smooth as melted caramel, sultry and sweet.
Frank and Marcus routinely displayed their CPD stars for the woman. As they did, both detectives realized that she was not a human at all, but a doppelganger, an automaton. From the machine’s exquisite appearance, smoothness of voice and movement, Campanelli could tell that this was a very high-end model. That being the case, it was also understood by the detective that the machine was far older than it appeared, as there were no manufacturers of doppelgangers left on Earth.
Frank introduced himself and his partner.
“Nice to meet the both of you,” it said, “I am Marta, personal assistant to Attorney Gianfranco Beritoni. How may I help you?”
“We need to speak with Mister Beritoni about one of his clients.”
“Do you gentleman have an appointment?”
“No, and we don’t need one. Please take us to him,” Campanelli stressed heavily, though he remained polite.
“I see,” Marta said, seemingly unaffected by the man
’s insistence. “I am contacting him now,” the machine said as it sent a message to its master. It took only a few seconds to receive a response. “He will be happy to see you in a moment. His meeting is ending now. If you gentlemen would wait here with me?”
“Thank you,” Frank granted.
The wait was less than thirty seconds. From a corner office to their extreme left came the sound of brief, but raucous laughter from behind frosted glass walls. Shadows within began to move as they arose from chairs and soon, they angled toward the door.
“Well, we’ll just let that take its course, then,” said the first visible figure as the door opened, a man in an expensive, shiny suit. He was taller than Frank, about five foot ten. Campanelli recognized the white-haired man as someone he had seen recently, though the name escaped him for the moment. The second to exit was very tall, almost the height of Williams. His suit was a simple dark blue, but very well cut. He eyed the two detectives warily as they were joined by the third. This one, a dark haired, slightly overweight fellow with a sculpted five o’clock shadow clapped the first one on the shoulder, initiating a handshake. After a brief exchange of farewells, the visitors headed toward Frank and Marcus, who were still near the elevator.
The large man led his companion, virtually blocking the shorter, older man from their view. As the lawyer had only granted a brief nod to him once their business was concluded, Frank assumed that he was nothing more than muscle, a bodyguard. This made the familiar figure behind him all the more interesting. As they approached, Marcus tapped the elevator’s call button and smiled congenially.
The big man did not return it, but his companion spoke up. “Good morning. Thank you, sir. God bless you,” he said with a winning smile that exploded in a brilliant row of whitened teeth against tanned skin.
Marcus returned the ‘good morning’ as his unsmiling eyes swept over the bodyguard’s face. Frank looked hard at the both of them, accessed his bio-electronic manager and took several stills of both men.
“Have a blessed day, gentlemen,” White Hair said.
Frank nodded as the doors closed. The doppelganger spoke as her boss approached them.
“Detectives Frank Campanelli and Marcus Williams,” Marta said as she gestured to them with her left arm, “Attorney Gianfranco Beritoni,” she flagged him with her right.
“Gentlemen,” Beritoni orated and smiled, though it was guarded, “good morning. Shall we talk in private?”
“Please,” Frank answered and the two detectives followed him inside.
Beritoni closed the door and, keeping the same smile on his face, he took his seat behind the large and ornate mahogany desk and folded his hands over his tie. “Now, how can I help you gentlemen?”
“We are looking for a client of yours, Mister Beritoni,” Campanelli spoke out.
“And who might that be, sir?” Gianfranco said in a rich tone. To Frank, the man sounded as if he belonged on stage somewhere, acting in a play by Shakespeare. His deep brown hair hung just below the ears and was parted on his left side, allowing it to hang near his right eye. Beritoni used this for an affectation, giving his head a slight shake to the right to clear the hair from his forehead.
“James Antony,” Frank said, drilling his eyes into the lawyer’s face as he searched for some type of reaction. The man did not give so much as a blink, as if the man knew exactly who the policemen were there for and had steeled himself for it.
“Antony is my client. I processed his bail the other day. What’s he done now?”
“Same incident, only now we have him on attempted murder. His bail’s been revoked as you probably already know.”
“Really?” Beritoni exuded in surprise. “I had not heard.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Williams asked.
“Well now,” Gianfranco sat back as his eyes searched the ceiling, “I’ve not seen Mister Antony since Friday morning, nor have I spoken to him since that time.”
Frank eyed the man steadily and though Beritoni blinked a few times, he wore a mild mannered, calm expression upon his face and did not look away from him. Campanelli detested attorneys and he felt that this one was simply a good actor and was leaving out quite a bit of truth.
“Did you have many dealings with the man, Mister Beritoni?”
“None,” the lawyer stated flatly, “he was a new client.”
“Was?” Frank stepped upon. “Don’t you mean is?”
Beritoni blinked again, harder this time and shifted his eyes to Williams then back to Campanelli. “Semantics, sir. We do not typically represent career criminals. I assumed that it was a one-time assignment.”
“Why did you take his case, Mister Beritoni? Why are other attorneys from this firm representing his two accomplices?”
“Not that I have to answer that, detective, but it was a directive from a named partner.”
“Del Taylor,” Campanelli provided, not just guessing but outwardly stating it as a fact. “He just called you in the dead of night and sent you off to bail him out in a matter of a couple hours. That’s some service for a new client.”
“He had the money to put up. I merely represented him.” Beritoni refolded his hands upon his abdomen, tilted his head contemplatively to one side and rocked gently in his chair.
“Your employer is the personal attorney to Fillipo Ignatola, the boss of the Chicago Mafia,” Frank spoke deliberately, measuring each syllable before punching it out to his listener.
“All right,” Gianfranco bellowed and stood, “that’s enough of this. I have no knowledge of any client of ours being in league with organized crime.”
Frank remained seated as did Marcus.
“Perhaps that’s a topic for another time,” Frank said after a moment of staring hard into Beritoni’s face. He stood and reached into his sport coat pocket. “This is my card,” he said and placed it on the desk. “If you hear from Antony, advise him to turn himself in then call me.”
“I would do that in any case,” Beritoni proclaimed firmly and wished them a surly ‘good morning’.
Frank and Marcus stepped slowly back to the elevator and headed down. Both men knew better than to speak aloud in a building suspected of being connected to organized crime and were aware that devices existed that could snatch the transmissions of bio-electronic implants right out of the air. They were expensive, especially these days, and older models were preferred as they were superior in quality. Admiring the old structure’s beauty on the way out, the two did not communicate until they reached the sidewalk.
“Now what?” Marcus said lowly, his voice little more than a croaky rumble.
Campanelli stood still for a moment, simply watching the traffic roll along South Michigan. His eyes rested on the nearest of the Art Institute’s lion statues, now visible between two trees. He let out a hard, long sigh. “Time for a haircut.”
***
Frank had instructed the cruiser to head for Oakley Avenue, many blocks south and west of the law firm’s building. As they went along Oakley, the streets became bumpier, the buildings more run down and a higher percentage of them were completely burnt out. The faces from the sidewalks and windows watching the unmarked police car bounce along became more somber and certainly hostile. Campanelli had alerted headquarters of their destination, deep inside District Twelve territory. A dispatcher let them know that patrols would be concentrated in that area in case back up was needed.
Once on Oakley, Frank took manual control of the car. It was a narrow street, just one lane in either direction, made ever smaller by parked or abandoned vehicles. Campanelli slowed at every intersection, even if no traffic signs were present. Had he left the vehicle’s computer control the car, it would have stopped at every intersection that had at one time featured a stop sign, whether one was there or not. The detectives soon found themselves bracketed between civilian automobiles that paid no attention to signs of any kind, forcing him to roll cautiously but steadily through every intersection.
; “Ummm, Frank,” Marcus spoke up as the car passed through an intersection which featured no corner buildings, just piles of rubble resulting from fire or something worse. “Where the hell are we going and do we need to call the National Guard?”
“What? You were a cop on the South Side,” Frank returned.
“Yeah, but I only left because they closed Districts Five and Twenty-Two for lack of residency. This is a war zone.”
“Then I’m in good company,” Campanelli turned to him with no trace of a smile, “you bein’ ex-military ‘n’ all.”
“Very fu…!” Marcus tried to return, but was interrupted by a loud impact upon the roof. Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention; a large stone tumbled away from the car and onto the sidewalk to their right. Williams placed his hand upon his gun at his shoulder holster as he craned and stretched in the car seat to see who might have thrown it. Several elderly people had stopped along the sidewalk to stare at the passing car, but none appeared to have the arm required to pull off that throw.
“Forget it,” Frank said, nonplussed. “Dat’s just a ‘welcome to da neighborhood’.”
“Oh, great,” Marcus replied, still searching behind them. “What do they do when they’re angry?” To his annoyance, Campanelli merely gave a short laugh and kept driving.
A minute later, Frank found Twenty-Fourth Street and turned left. This street was even narrower than Oakley and was utterly deserted of foot and automobile traffic. Williams did not find that comforting. Midway up the block, Frank found what he was looking for and parked between two abandoned cars on the south side of the street. Both wrecks appeared to be at least forty years old and were stripped to their framework.
Marcus was about to ask what they were doing there when he looked to the sign on the storefront next to them. “Ilario’s” it read in antique gold script on the large window. Next to that was a crude painting of a barber pole in red and white. Frank used the car radio to let dispatch know of their location and that they were exiting the vehicle. The dispatcher, a man who sounded about Frank’s age, answered with a dubious, “Well, if you’re sure.”
Campanelli: Sentinel Page 5
