The Fall

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Yeah. The guy knocked on the door to ask me to move my car.”

  The first time or the second, Minorini wanted to ask; he knew what time he’d called Joanne. There was no reason he could see for Joanne to make up an extra plow pass, or to even think of it if it hadn’t happened.

  “I figured you had a service and I checked,” Carver said. “The name on the truck was the same as the name on your sheet. Was something wrong?”

  “No. Just checking to see they didn’t do it too early.”

  He went back down to his office and called the plow service. What time had they plowed the drive? They didn’t know offhand. Was there a problem? Maybe. Maybe not. Could they find out for sure and call him back?

  Eventually their driver called him. He sounded groggy and admitted to having been roused from a sound sleep to answer Minorini’s questions.

  He gave the man the address. “You remember what time you plowed there?”

  There was a loud yawn, then “As close as I can remember, mid-morning—that’s sometime between four and five o’clock your time.

  “Did you plow it earlier?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m lucky if I get to it once before the owner bitches.”

  “Had it been plowed earlier?”

  “Yeah, now that you bring it up. I didn’t think of it before, but it had been done earlier.”

  “You know who might have done it?”

  “Nah. But you know these homeowners. They see their neighbor’s drive gettin’ done, they can’t wait. They offer the guy twenty or thirty bucks to do theirs, too, while he’s at it. And—you know—it’s easy money for five minutes work, so he does it…Or sometimes a guy’ll plow the wrong drive by mistake. He won’t bother trying to collect from the homeowner, ’cause he wasn’t supposed to do it. And he won’t mention it to his boss for obvious reasons.”

  “Were any of the other drives plowed?”

  “No.”

  “You notice any other trucks around while you were there?”

  “No. I got six houses on that street. I did notice one guy doing his own drive with an industrial-sized blower. Probably the only time he’s ever had to use it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “All part of our friendly service.”

  Minorini hung up the phone and decided—just long enough for his adrenaline to surge and make him light-headed—that Carver must’ve nailed Dossi.

  He abandoned the idea as quickly as he’d considered it. Even if Joanne was a cipher, Minorini knew John Carver wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t the sort to abandon his post, either, unless—

  Minorini reached for the phone and called information.

  “What city and state?”

  “Evanston, Illinois.”

  “Yes?”

  “Evanston Hospital.”

  The operator said, “Thank you,” and a computer voice instantly took over. “The number you have requested, 847-570-2000, can be immediately connected for no charge. If you press one…”

  When SBC had connected him, he asked for the Maternity Department, then asked whether a Mrs. John Carver, or a Gloria Carver, had just delivered a baby there.

  “I’m sorry, sir. We’re not at liberty—”

  “I’m Agent Paul Minorini with the FBI, Chicago office at 219 South Dearborn. Get the number from directory assistance and call me back.” He gave her his extension and hung up. When the woman called back, Minorini repeated his original question.

  Yes, there was a Mrs. John Carver there. Would Agent Minorini like to speak with her?

  “No. I just need to know when she delivered, is it a boy or a girl, and are Mrs. C and the baby all right.”

  When Minorini hung up, he immediately called Carver.

  Carver said, “Hello.”

  Minorini said, “Congratulations, John. Why didn’t you mention your good news?”

  “With all the excitement, it must’ve slipped my mind that I hadn’t.”

  “Wife and daughter okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Or I would’ve taken off.”

  “I’d love to see your pictures. Why don’t you stop by my office on your way out this afternoon?”

  Carver didn’t have any pictures with him when he walked into Minorini’s office five minutes later. Minorini greeted him with, “How long was Lessing alone?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Literally overnight you went from being paranoid that you’d be stuck on duty when Gloria went into labor to being totally unconcerned.”

  Carver nodded. “Eight hours…I guess I better go back up and make a report.” He looked pale enough to be in shock.

  “That’s up to you. I won’t lie for you, but as far as I’m concerned, no harm, no foul. And I’m not about to say anything if nobody asks.”

  “You could get in major trouble.”

  Minorini shook his head. “It’s not as if you were out screwing around.”

  Carver said, “Thanks,” as he held out his hand.

  Minorini shook it. “What’re you calling her?”

  “We’re thinking maybe Joy.”

  So Carver hadn’t done it.

  When he’d left, Minorini spread the papers out on his desk in roughly chronological order. Obviously, they’d all missed something. He read until he came to the Highland Park police reports, to one of their canvass reports. What jumped off the list of cars seen in the vicinity when Dossi was shot was a silver-blue Mercedes that one of the cops had noticed as he was racing to respond. The Mercedes was also traveling towards the scene, so he hadn’t noted the license plate number. And with the snow and all, he hadn’t been able to see the driver. Minorini didn’t blame him for that. Highland Park didn’t get all that many shootings. And besides, the car was going the wrong way for a getaway.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe the driver was just more clever than the cops.

  It was too crazy, but it nagged him. So at eight P.M., when he finally admitted to himself that they weren’t going to solve anything today, he hit the Kennedy northbound instead of going home.

  The silver-blue Mercedes seemed to be just as he’d left it. He’d had it washed on the way back from driving his aunt to O’Hare; there was no trace of salt or road dirt. Not trusting the weak overhead light, he got the Maglite from his trunk and gave it the once-over—the garage floor underneath, too. Nothing.

  Inside, the upholstery looked as if it had been detailed—no dust or fingerprints. Fingerprints. He didn’t have a kit and didn’t want to expose this line of inquiry by asking for one, so he put on gloves and improvised with graphite lock-lubricant. He wasn’t too surprised to find there were no prints on the driver’s door handle, outside or in. Nor anywhere else, not even where smudges from his own prints should have been. The trunk was unhelpful. It was as clean as the rest. He couldn’t remember noticing the arrangement of its contents when he’d last had it open, so he couldn’t tell if anything was moved.

  He closed the trunk and got a roll of paper towels with which to clean up the graphite. Just to be thorough, he put on a clean pair of gloves and carefully felt beneath the seats.

  Under the driver’s side, where it must have fallen when Joanne took the car out, he found a 3x5 black-and-white photo of Dossi, wearing the same dressing gown he’d had on when the sniper took him out. In the picture, Dossi was reading the news, totally relaxed—judging by his expression, completely unaware he was being watched.

  It wasn’t a great photo—too grainy. It had probably been taken at night with a telephoto lens and fast film. But its existence was a tribute to the photographer’s stalking skills. The style was unmistakably Joanne’s, her quarry caught au naturel. The picture was snapped or cropped to be artistically balanced. Even without her fingerprints, it could convict her.

  He got a poly bag out of his trunk and put the photo in it. He’d check for prints later with the proper stuff.

  Maybe.

  He could hear Haskel’s “No! You’re putting me on! Not the mope!”


  They’re all just mopes to you aren’t they?

  And wasn’t it still purely circumstantial? There was a universe of difference between shooting someone with a camera and with a .3006. Wouldn’t a jury assume that?

  Minorini didn’t know. He wasn’t altogether certain why he wrote his find up on his personal computer, encrypted the report, and saved it in a hidden file. He told himself he wanted to be sure.

  He thought of Joanne’s picture of her ex-boyfriend, and her skill with a gun and camera.

  Where would she get a gun? What happened to her old man’s gun? Maybe she had it. Maybe she’d had enough trouble from the Feds.

  He slept fitfully. He dreamed he was the sniper and when he looked through the scope, Lessing was in his crosshairs.

  When he got to the office next morning, he asked Butler, “We still got Dossi’s body?”

  “I think so. Although his lawyer’s been screaming about that. Why?”

  “It occurred to me we never had Lessing ID him.”

  “Kinda moot now.”

  “It may have some bearing on who killed him—I mean, we ought to be sure he was the one who killed Siano.”

  “You may be right. It can’t hurt anyhow. But if you’re gonna do it, get a move on. We can’t hold the remains much longer.”

  The woman with the red hair must be one of the agency models, gorgeous, blasé. In another lifetime, Minorini would’ve been interested. In his life before Joanne.

  “I’m looking for Joanne Lessing,” he said.

  “Who are you, the FBI?”

  “I am, as a matter of fact.”

  She was only momentarily nonplussed. “She rob a bank?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  She gave him a smile that was pure Mae West and said, “Well, I’m sure if she’s shot someone it was just with a camera.”

  He started to laugh, but the word “shot” stuck in his craw and Detective Gray’s comment echoed in his head. Who was the last person in the world they’d suspect of shooting Dossi? And who had the most to gain? The thought was interrupted by a man’s voice.

  “Something I can help you with?” The speaker was five-ten and fit-looking, with blue eyes and thinning, red-blond hair. His tone was more sarcastic than helpful.

  Minorini said, “You must be Hancock.”

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage.”

  “Special Agent Minorini, FBI.” Minorini didn’t offer to shake.

  Hancock didn’t seem impressed. “I thought you boys had your own photographers.”

  Before Minorini could reply, Joanne came out of Hancock’s office and slipped her arm into Hancock’s. “Don’t be defensive, darling. Paul’s not going to arrest me.”

  Hancock looked startled. “Paul is it?”

  “And I need all the work I can get.”

  Joanne’s voice sounded too bright, Minorini thought, too stagey. She was trying to cover some strong emotion. Jealously, perhaps? Maybe she’d been eavesdropping on his conversation with Red.

  Hancock pulled his arm free and patted her hand. “Don’t let me interfere with commerce.” He turned into his office, then stopped and turned back. “Rita, would you like to see your proofs?”

  “Does a bear sleep in the woods?” She gave Joanne and Minorini a knowing smile which only Joanne returned, and followed Hancock into his office.

  Forty-Seven

  The drive north was slow and tense. Paul hadn’t told her where they were going, just that he needed her to make an ID. She figured it out when he pulled into a parking space on the north side of a newer, two-story building on Utica in Waukegan. A sign next to the door proclaimed it an after-hours entrance. To the Lake County Morgue.

  Paul rang the bell, and the door was opened by a smiling black man with bad teeth. The man stepped back. Paul took her elbow, and she found herself in a hallway that seemed to parallel the north wall of the facility and stretch from front to back. The man led them to a curtained window in the south wall. “You wait here,” he told them. “I’ll open the screen. When you’re ready, tap on the glass.”

  They waited. After a few moments, the curtain opened, revealing a small space—maybe three feet by six—surrounded and separated from the rest of the room by another curtain that hung from a track on the ceiling. The attendant pushed a shrouded gurney into the viewing space. He didn’t seem in any hurry. Joanne wondered if he’d been trained to be patient or chosen for the trait. She wasn’t in a hurry either. She could tell by the shape beneath the sheet she was about to see a body. And she knew without doubt whose body. The only question was—

  “Why?”

  Paul turned from his own silent contemplation of the “view” to say, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who is it?”

  “His name’s Gianni Dossi. Ready?”

  “No!”

  As if he hadn’t heard, he rapped on the glass. The attendant pulled the cover back, exposing Dossi’s face. Joanne stared.

  In death, he seemed small and shrunken—gray as clay, with sagging flesh and wrinkled, scrape-marked skin. His eyes were slitted, the whites dried black. His watchfulness was gone, his predatory animation. The remains were to the man she’d stalked and photographed as road kill was to a fox or coyote. It was hard to imagine him a threat to anyone.

  You couldn’t weigh a soul, she reminded herself, though it had substantial presence. Dossi’s soul was decades gone. Not her fault. Now the life force that had made him more than the sum of his biochemical reactions was gone too.

  She said, “How did he die?”

  “Heart shot, through and through. A Bureau sniper couldn’t have done a neater job—except they go for the head.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “The Bureau doesn’t have a clue. Maybe we were wrong thinking he was the one who shot your neighbor. Maybe he was a victim just like Siano.”

  “But he’s the one I saw in my neighborhood. I’m sure! What else would he be doing there?”

  “Maybe he had business with Siano. Or maybe he saw the shooter—that would make him a marked man.”

  She felt slightly dizzy. She’d never considered that Dossi might be guiltless. Then she noticed Paul hadn’t answered her question. “Who do you think did it?”

  “You don’t like my theory?”

  The bomb hadn’t been planted in her car after the Jane Doe subpoena was issued, only after her name got out.

  “If he wasn’t a hit man, why would anyone come after me?”

  If Dossi were an innocent, why would anyone care if she saw him in her neighborhood. And…“Why would he be driving a stolen car?”

  Minorini shrugged.

  “The man Dossi killed—How did he do it?”

  Awkwardly put, but Paul must have understood because he said, “Dossi put a gun to his head and blew his brains out.”

  “And the man who shot Dossi?”

  “What makes you think it was a man?”

  She felt a stab of panic. How did he know?

  Relax! He’s just being argumentative. He can’t know.

  “I just assumed—Most violent crimes are committed by men. Aren’t they?”

  His face was passive but she was sure he was laughing at her.

  “Mmm-hmm. Dossi was killed with a rifle. Care to venture what kind?” She shook her head. He continued. “At least Dossi had the guts to face his victims.”

  The implication was “not like a sniper.”

  “Funny,” she said, “how when someone goes after a dangerous animal with a rifle it’s called hunting, but if the animal happens to have two legs, they change the name.”

  He grinned. “Touché.”

  She walked away from the window and stopped at the door, then turned to take a last look. Without benefit of the undertaker’s art, Dossi looked nothing like the guest of honor at a wake, nothing like Doris Davis.

  The memory of Mrs. Davis and her bewildered son bludgeoned Joanne’s fledgling remorse. Dossi had forced her to kill. He was
no more deserving of her sympathy than the foxes and coyotes her father had hunted.

  When they stepped outside, the sun was setting, breaking through fluffy clouds that were dropping ice diamonds of snow. The flakes seemed to evaporate as they hit the traffic-warmed pavement.

  In the car Minorini said, “You know how to shoot a rifle, don’t you?”

  Her startled response was so fleeting, he almost missed it. She said, “Why do you ask?”

  He had her! He only had to push a little and he could present the Bureau with an easy conviction. He’d have another notch in his gun handle, but what else? The glory would fade. The Bureau would soon ask what have you done for us lately? In ten years he’d be pensioned out; Joanne would just be getting out of prison. But what about Sean? If Joanne were arrested, Howard Lessing would no doubt ask for custody. And without Joanne’s influence, how would Sean turn out?

  Minorini wondered what would happen if he just didn’t connect the dots. Failure to solve one more mob-connected hit wouldn’t ruin his career. Why fuck up the kid’s life to nail a murderer’s killer?

  “Just making conversation,” he told Joanne.

  Joanne had taken the train that morning, and since she’d agreed to help Paul with the ID, he offered to drive her home. He took Route 41 south. Traffic was jammed, and Paul turned west on Old Elm Road, then headed south on Ridge. The route took them past the Heller Center. She was aware of him watching her as they jogged east on Half Day—past Dossi’s house—to pick up Ridge where it continued south again. She kept her eyes on the road ahead.

  Someone had thrown away a can of rust-colored paint, and it had splashed out on the faded asphalt as the garbage truck went down the street. It looked like a half-dried blood stain on the pavement. Joanne had noticed it before, but it had just been paint then. It was blood in hindsight, a foreshadow of the blood she’d spilled.

  She felt unclean, as if she’d just been diagnosed with AIDS or cancer. Would the feeling ever fade? With AIDS, you died. With cancer, you died or you got better. No one died of guilt unless he got caught. Lots of guilty Nazis died peacefully of old age after committing unspeakable atrocities. All she’d committed was a desperate necessity. But how long before the feelings faded?