The Fall

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Are you outta your mind? The wedding’s in twenty minutes!”

  “Then I presume you’re withdrawing your objection to my doing this job?”

  She thought he might have an attack of some sort as he tried to think of an alternative. “Are you any good?”

  Better than you deserve, she thought.

  Finally, he said, “Go ahead. But if your pictures aren’t terrific, I’ll see you never work in this town again.”

  Bad dialog, recycled from a soap opera. Joanne just stared at him. If it was an indicator of his taste, she could do the job half asleep. She looked around. The church was old and photogenic. The bride and groom presentable. There shouldn’t be any difficulty in creating the illusion of happily ever after. For a minute, she was tempted to do a Fitzharris job of it—barely adequate. As soon as she had the thought, she was ashamed of it. She’d do the job for the happy couple. To hell with the old man. And with any luck, she’d get him back later. She’d catch him on film making a fool of himself when he’d had too much to drink and started feeling up the bridesmaids.

  Fifty

  Minorini was sitting in Haskel’s chair, with his feet on Haskel’s desk, the next morning when Haskel came in.

  Haskel had a Starbucks coffee cup in his hand and a Sun-Times under his arm. He put the coffee on the desk and dropped the paper next to it. “What’s up?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Nothing I know of.”

  “We still have a leak.”

  “Kinda moot now, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Not till it’s plugged.” Minorini thought that made Haskel squirm a little.

  “Shit! It could be anyone, it could be a clerk, or anyone in the US Attorney’s office. It’s probably Judge Hollander. That story he gave you about visiting Dossi was a load of crap.”

  This last idea seemed to have stiffened Haskel’s backbone. Maybe he thought he’d distracted Minorini from his original line of inquiry. Now he took the offensive. “Get outta my chair. What is this? ATF got our bomber. I got our hit man, and Dossi undoubtedly got what he deserved. Who cares who did it? Or if you care, you go chase your tail trying to solve it. And see if you can find out who did Hoffa while you’re at it. Get out of my chair!”

  Minorini got up slowly and walked around the desk.

  Haskel sat down behind it. “Get out of here and let me read my paper.” As Minorini got to the door, Haskel said, “This is personal with you, isn’t it? Why? You got something going with Lessing? You pissed because someone put her in the line of fire?”

  “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m sick of the civilian body count and having to have a score card to tell who the good guys are.”

  “No, I think you let Lessing get close to you at your little safe house—maybe close enough to ring your chimes. If that’s the case you ought to just bang the bitch and stop trying to cover up with this leak crap.”

  “Is that what you’d do?”

  “I’d fuck her brains out. But that’s not your style is it, Paulie? Maybe you ought to marry her!”

  “Maybe I would if she’d have me!”

  Haskel sat back in his chair and laughed. “Meantime, you got a little plumbing job to do. Better get to it.”

  Minorini just looked at him.

  Haskel laughed again and said, “Drip, drip, drip.”

  There was a pink message slip on Minorini’s desk: “Call Mr. Butler.” He picked up the phone and hit the button for Butler’s number.

  “Butler.”

  “It’s Paul.”

  “Yeah. You got a date for that State’s Attorney’s Party?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What the hell—It’s tonight, you know!”

  “I’ll get someone. If worse comes to worst I can call an escort service.”

  “Cute.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about the Dossi case.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Right after you report on your State’s Attorney gig.”

  As soon as he disconnected, Minorini rang up Rage Photo and asked for Joanne. When she said hello, he said, “Come with me to a party tonight. It’s a political thing. I have to attend, but all I have to do is show up in a tux and bring a presentable date.”

  “It might be worth it to see you in a tux. What time?”

  “About seven?”

  “Shall I bring my camera?”

  “Your call. But I’m sure there’ll be photographers.”

  “Why don’t you pick me up at work? We have a dressing room for the models. I could change there, and you won’t have to drive so far.”

  Fifty-One

  Fields still had the dress. Midnight blue silk, classic lines, a neckline suggesting more cleavage than it showed and enough back to support the built-in engineering—no unsightly straps to slip. The dress fit as if it were custom made, which posed a problem because the fitting room mirror showed every seam and wrinkle in her everyday underwear. She reached under the floor length skirt and slipped her briefs off. Pantyhose weren’t going to work either, but no one was going to see her legs.

  She agonized briefly over using Rick’s credit card to pay for it. The saleslady remembered her, of course, and didn’t bother to call Mr. Rage for authorization. With a wrap and shoes, and a matching clutch, it all came to $1200. But after murder, credit card fraud was penny ante. She’d read Crime and Punishment and she’d seen Crimes and Misdemeanors. On the whole, she thought Woody Allen had a better measure of the age.

  She changed after work, in the models’ dressing room, where she left her civvies, and she borrowed some of the costume jewelry they kept for shoots—cubic zirconia and ruby glass, but they looked real and classic. She felt naked without her camera case.

  Paul arrived in a cab, which waited while he came upstairs for her. His only comment on her looks was, “Very nice.” No small thing—he could’ve just stepped off a shoot for a GQ tux layout.

  The party was at the Cultural Center, one of the city’s most stunning venues. It turned out to be one of those black tie things Michael Sneed mentions in her columns. The attendees were the people you see on the society pages, businessmen, and politicians, and lots of lawyers—corporate attorneys, as well as prosecutors, a few expensive defenders and some judges.

  She knew she should be terrified, surrounded by all the law enforcement personnel, but they were all clueless. She felt like a jaguar watching from the safety of a high perch as the hunters blundered by below.

  She was surprised at the number of people who insisted that they be introduced to her, including the Assistant US attorney who’d forced her to testify.

  “I’m Aaron Mercer—”

  “The US Attorney. I know.”

  Mercer said, “I’m afraid you have the advantage, Miss—?”

  “Ms. Lessing.”

  He blinked. She could tell the exact moment he figured out who she was and where they’d met before by the slight widening of his eyes. It was a measure, she decided, of how she’d changed since Dossi died that she enjoyed Mercer’s confusion and discomfort. And she could recall their last meeting without blushing.

  “You have friends in the State’s Attorney’s office?” he asked. The implication was why hadn’t she used her influence to get the subpoena quashed?

  “Actually, I’m still in FBI custody.”

  She glanced briefly at Paul, then watched Mercer process that information. Paul’s reaction was impossible to read.

  Joanne was spared further conversation by the arrival of Judge Tofler. She guessed from the way he came beaming up that he’d been pleased by her pictures and that he’d had too much to drink. Nevertheless, she smiled and took his arm and said, “Excuse me,” as the judge led her away.

  Mercer turned to Minorini. “What’s going on?”

  “Dossi’s dead. Lessing’s no longer a witness. Fair game.”

  “And you’re sleeping with her.”

  “That’s pretty crude, even for you.”

  “I don’t like it!”


  Minorini just shrugged and smiled.

  There was something enigmatic about her. She’d climaxed for him—hadn’t she? With women you could never tell for sure. But he suspected some part of her hadn’t surrendered. He wondered why he felt compelled to know for sure whether she’d killed Dossi. Why he didn’t just follow all the mob “leads” to their dead ends, file his reports, and forget it. But he knew he couldn’t live with the uncertainty. He could live with Joanne, even knowing that she’d done it. He couldn’t live with not being sure.

  They caught a cab on Michigan Avenue afterward. As it turned onto Madison, Joanne looked up to find Paul watching her. Cat and mouse. He didn’t seem the type to torture his prey. If he caught Dossi’s killer, he’d just make an arrest. Wouldn’t he?

  She wasn’t sure what perverse impulse made her ask, “Do you think you’ll ever discover Dossi’s killer?”

  He’d been leaning toward her, now he sat back. “Discover, yes. Proving it is something else.” He glanced at the cabbie, who seemed intent on the road. “People get away with murder all the time. If they’re smart enough not to tell anyone.”

  What was he saying?

  Something clicked, metaphorically, as distinctly as the zippery ratchet of handcuffs closing on a felon’s wrists. She knew that she was caught. She should have been terrified, but she felt incredibly aroused.

  She wondered if he had any idea how turned on she was. How could he? But what was going on inside his head? She said, “A penny for your thoughts.”

  “Now that’s a cliché.”

  She just smiled.

  “I’m hungry. Like to stop at my place for something?”

  “Sure.”

  He licked his lips, slowly, and she felt her own lips parting. She felt the pleasant squeezing sensation in her breasts that meant her nipples were coming to attention. She felt the strength abandoning her limbs. She offered no resistance when he pushed her gently back against the door and slipped a hand between her legs.

  “Let’s go somewhere private.”

  Paul’s place was a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the twenty-fifth floor overlooking the Loop and Lake. Immediately to the right of the door was a galley kitchen with a pass-through counter to the living room. To the left was a closet, and a short hall to the open bathroom and presumably the bedroom.

  He took her wrap and hung it with his own coat in the closet. Then he put his hands on her shoulders. The slight lift of his arms caused his suit jacket to pull open; she could see the dark shape of his gun. She shuddered.

  He must’ve read her mind because he said, “Sorry. I forget it’s there sometimes.”

  “But you need it. You may have to arrest a dangerous felon.”

  “Um-hmm.” He leaned towards her and she retreated until she came in contact with the wall next to the kitchen door. She reached through the door way to put her clutch on the countertop. She slipped her hands beneath his jacket, but he caught her wrists and pinned them gently at her sides. He leaned forward to kiss her, thrusting his tongue in her mouth. She felt a sensation like slow lightning and a languor so profound she would have slid to the floor if he hadn’t had her pinned. She felt light-headed. “Are you going to arrest me?” She was breathing faster.

  “Are you a dangerous felon?” He was breathing fast himself.

  “I plead the fifth.”

  “Then I’d better take you into custody.”

  The words gave her a start, though they weren’t surprising given the context. She shivered with excitement.

  Gently but very firmly he turned her around and lifted her hands over her head. He pressed against her, pushed her hands flat on the wall. He nuzzled the back of her neck, then said, “Spread your feet.” He accompanied the order with a thrust of his knee, forcing her legs apart. He kept her hands pinned.

  She let out a little sigh of pleasure. “I have rights…”

  “You have the right to remain silent.”

  He seemed to lose track of what he was saying. She could feel his distraction as he pressed against her rear. He stepped backward until the only points of contact between them were his hands on her wrists. He let them go and ran his hands down her sides, all the way to her ankles. He removed her shoes.

  She was leaning against the wall, now. Weak in the knees and everywhere else.

  He reached around her, putting his hands together, on her throat, as if to strangle her from behind. Then he brought his hands down slowly, over her chest and breasts, pausing to slip his index fingers under the edges of her dress and to finger her nipples through the silk.

  She let herself sigh.

  He cupped her breasts, probed the creases beneath them with his fingertips, then slid his palms slowly over her abdomen, past her waist and down the fronts of her thighs. He squatted to feel down over her knees and shins and ankles. He stood up and ran his hands down her back and buttocks, over her thighs and calves. When he straightened, he rested his forehead against her shoulder.

  A series of rhythmic shudders tensed her abdomen and innards. She was nearly hyperventilating.

  She felt his fingers working her zipper. He lowered it slowly. He pulled the two sides of her dress apart and traced her backbone with his tongue—all the way down to her tailbone. He let the garment drop, and when she stepped out of it, he blew his breath out slowly. He kept one hand on the small of her back as he lifted the dress onto the back of nearby chair.

  Then he finished his search, running a hand up the inside of one leg and down the other, gently, thoroughly probing the hidden space within her.

  She spread her fingers wide and clawed the wall. She heard the brushing sound of fabric, then a soft metallic ratcheting. He reached for her right wrist and closed something cold and hard around it. He brought her arm down, behind her back.

  She felt a little surge of terror, a huge wave of pleasure.

  He held her cuffed wrist while he reached for her free one. There was a second ratcheting sound, and she was his. She should have been terrified, but she had never felt such intense arousal.

  He turned her around and grasped her elbow. He led her to the couch, and seated her in the center. She sat with her arms pinned behind her and watched him remove his holster and his tie…

  Minorini awoke before sunrise, still dreaming that Joanne was next to him beneath the covers.

  No dream. She lay half-facing him, arms overhead. She looked content. At some point last night he’d located his backup handcuffs and, after wrapping her wrists with protective strips torn from the sheet, he’d cuffed her to the headboard. Apart from an “Ahhh,” or “Oh!” or “Paul!” she’d said nothing, no “stop” or “don’t,” but she’d let him act out every fantasy, clawing and biting when he told her to submit, knowing instinctively he’d meant the opposite. And—he realized with a start—letting him fuck her without protection.

  What was really going on?

  When they had finally climaxed—together—and she lay there with her arms overhead and her eyes drifting shut, she’d murmured, “I confess.”

  He’d stroked her satiny belly. He couldn’t feel any tension in her muscles. “To what?”

  “I killed J.R. And Hoffa. And Dossi.”

  That hit him like a sucker punch, but he managed to stay cool. “So?”

  “And I stole the money for my dress.” She seemed more asleep than not.

  “From whom?”

  “Rick.”

  “I’ll pay him back. I love that dress.”

  “It was twelve hundred dollars…”

  “Worth every penny.”

  He felt he was being worked over by the sandman. She’d said something about killing Dossi. Just kidding? He should follow through but…

  He managed to pull the covers over them before he drifted under.

  Sometime later the phone woke him. He glanced at the caller ID, then stretched to turn the ringer off. Haskel could wait.

  Sunlight had crept through the window and lay across the bed like a bright
comforter.

  Beneath the covers, Joanne rolled onto her back and asked, without opening her eyes, “Who’s calling?”

  “No one.”

  She tried to lower her arms and opened her eyes when she got to the end of the slack in the chains. She turned her face toward him. She didn’t seemed surprised or frightened, but beyond that, he couldn’t read her look.

  He said, “I want you.”

  She smiled ever so subtly and tugged at the tether. She spread her legs beneath the bed clothes and arched her body.

  He could almost feel her will him to pull the covers back and look. Part of him pointed his response as he reached to stroke her beneath the sheet.

  She raised her body to meet his open hand. “How much?”

  By way of answer, he threw the covers off and rolled up, looming over her on hands and knees so she could see for herself.

  The sun poured over them, and he paused to stare as if the light had changed her into someone else. It had. The sudden intensity brought out a tinge of yellow-brown, the color of an old bruise, between her right breast and shoulder, above the armpit, just where a rifle stock would rest if she had fired a long gun. He touched the spot and asked, “What’s this?”

  He felt her tense. She looked at the place. “A bruise, I guess.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “I don’t recall. Does it matter?”

  Did it?

  She shivered and he noticed goose flesh forming on her arms and thighs.

  “Cold?”

  Her eyes widened and she nodded. “But you could warm me.”

  Performance art. The nice woman he’d been playing with had suddenly become a demon. But that was part of the turn-on. He smiled and nodded and fumbled for the handcuff key on the bedside table.