by Thomas Laird
However, I don’t think so.
It’s Jennifer. This is no outside force trying to drive me mad, like that old movie, Gaslight. I don’t really think this is a trick of my mind, and I’m certainly not going to pay some shrink a lot of money to delve into my inner consciousness. You have to come clean to those guys, and that’s not about to happen.
Anyway, with the quarter mil I got from Jennifer’s insurance, and with the cash I took from Pastore, I can buy another house in a better neighborhood, and I can outwait the leaky plumbing. Jennifer isn’t real. She’s dead. Dead. And I’m letting a nightmare run my life, and I let it run Carrie out of my house, too.
She’ll drift away, like a tide. It’s just a bad memory lingering in here. It’ll drift away.
Nothing remains in this life for very long. Everything is temporary and fleeting.
Carrie still won’t set foot in the house. I knew that was coming. So we continue to get very physical at her apartment, although she’s stepped up the talk about marriage.
“You can’t put it off forever, Derek. You said you wanted to do things right, didn’t you? So when’s it going to be?”
We’re in bed, where we always seem to be, at her place.
“How about doing it on New Year’s Eve in Tahoe?” I say.
“Really? You aren’t kidding around, this time?”
“I’m dead serious. Start the New Year off right, no?”
She lunges to me and hugs me, and we’re both still pretty well sweated up. Her breasts slide on my belly, and then she’s got me crazy again.
When we exhaust ourselves yet another time, she looks up at me with her lovely cow eyes.
“Don’t pull out the rug from me anymore, baby,” she pleads.
“Never happen.”
Then her mood turns to brooding, and she buries her face in my chest.
“What?” I ask.
“Are they still investigating Jennifer as a homicide?”
“Stop reading those goddam newspapers.”
“They keep saying they think it was foul play, and it had to be, right?”
“She might have run into the wrong guy at the wrong time, sure. Maybe he dragged her down to Louisiana and fed her to the alligators. Hell, I don’t know. But I do know that it wasn’t me, Carrie. You understand? It was not me.”
She reaches up and kisses me and prods inside my mouth with the tip of her tongue, and the two wolves are in heat all over again.
I’ll never hit bottom with her, plumb her depths, like they say. She wants more and more, and I have to keep handing it out, as if I had no control over this incessant joining and withdrawing.
Again, we collapse on each other.
“It’s you who are going to kill me, Carrie.”
But the name that almost jumped out of my mouth wasn’t Carrie.
It was Jennifer.
I have to wait a full stop before I can feel my own heart beating again.
She looks up at me, her eyes in a sweaty glaze, and there’s a question on her face. But no words come out of her lips, and she closes her eyes and lies still.
Chapter 4
Outfit murders are generally difficult to investigate and even harder to prosecute. Nobody knows nothing. That’s the standard response we get when we look into mobster murders, and this one’s no exception.
The bouncer is lying flat on his face. It’s a mess, of course. Gunshots from close range to the head or face are always stomach-churners. Fortunately, there are no rookie cops on scene, here at Britches ‘exotic dancer’ bar.
There’s another mess in the back office where an Outfit greaseball named Frank Pastore lies minus his existence. Someone popped him from the front, and Doc and I think it’s likely due to lead poisoning from a large round, say a .38 or a .45 or maybe even a .44 mag. Clint Eastwood popularized the .44 in Dirty Harry, a pleasant little Hollywood version of a copper’s wet dream.
“Looks like a robbery, Jimmy,” Dan Bowman, another Homicide tells Doc and me inside Pastore’s office. “He left some of the cash, though. It might’ve been too much for the perp to carry off in a hurry on the way out of here.”
Bowman’s a wiry, lean man who was a Green Beret in Vietnam. He looks like a commercial for the Berets: athletic, tanned, tough. He’s also a very quiet guy with a wife and twin little girls.
Bowman says he’ll talk to us later.
Then a uniform walks into the office. I don’t recognize him, and Doc doesn’t seem to, either.
“I’m Mark Carraher, Detectives. I was here when the call came through.”
“Who made that call?” Doc asks him.
Carraher’s a tall, beefy man. Looks like he might’ve played line, in football.
“She’s right outside. That’s why I came to get you. We found her sitting on the floor outside the ladies’ room when we arrived. She says she saw the guy who popped the bouncer, out front. His name was Lou Martino.”
Carraher exits. We walk out, and there she is, her mascara running down her cheeks like two black lines, and she has a bathrobe over her shoulders that barely conceals her working outfit, which is nothing more than a bikini top and a g-string bottom. She tries to pull the robe tighter together, but her attributes above are too large for her to close the damn thing.
We tell her to change into her street clothes and that we’ll drive her downtown. The floor is still blood-soaked by the door and in the office, and we need to get her the hell out of here before she goes down in a heap. Doc and I have made the crime scene thoroughly, by now, so we watch the stripper head for the dressing room.
*
We take her into the interview room on the first floor at Headquarters. It’s at least free of the gore that was splattered everywhere at Britches.
Her name is Beth Marx. She looks a lot better without the goo on her face. She must have scrubbed up and applied a little less garish, fresh makeup before she left the bar. She’s wearing a Bears sweatshirt, blue jeans, and running shoes. She looks more like a college kid, away from the tittie bar.
“I only strip so I can make money for tuition,” she says without having been asked a question, yet.
“You don’t have to explain anything to us,” I tell her. “Relax. You’re not going to get a grilling. This isn’t TV.”
She laughs.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing.”
She’s a pretty brunette who doesn’t need the cosmetics to be pretty. We can’t see her natural gifts with the floppy sweatshirt, but her face is what commands attention. Beth Marx would look good at 3:00 A.M. with no white face and scarlet lipstick. She’s the type I’d try to date, back in junior college, or maybe high school.
“What exactly did you see?” I ask.
Doc sips at his Styrofoam cup of coffee. I bought the kid a can of Coke. I’m drinking the same.
“I only saw the back of him as he was going out. I heard the gunshots while I was in the john, and I was frozen inside the stall in there. But when I heard someone going out, I had to crack the john door open and take a peek, and then I saw him, but only from the back, like I said.”
“Can you describe him at all?” Doc asks her with a smile.
She clasps her hands together on the interview table.
She chews her fingernails. She must use false nails when she’s on stage, I’m thinking.
“He was a big man, but not as big as…Lou.”
‘Lou’ comes out haltingly, like the name was choking her.
“Yeah? How big?” I ask.
“Not as big as Lou, like I said. Maybe…Maybe six-three or six-four. Wide shoulders. Not fat, but he was no lightweight.”
“Did you hear his voice?” Doc queries.
Her face clouds up.
“No. Not a word. He just walked up to Lou and shot him while he was lying on the floor. I saw his head…It was terrible.”
The streams erupt and course down her cheeks.
“I just did this job to pay for my books and tuition at DePaul
. It’s expensive, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. I went to a junior college,” I smile at her. “It was pricey enough. I can imagine what you pay at a private school.”
“I know what Frank was. I knew it when I applied at Britches. But I didn’t do anything extra for him, like some of the other girls. I swear I didn’t.”
“Beth, no one’s here to accuse you of anything. We just want to know what you saw. I know you’re scared. You’d have to be after seeing what happened,” I soothe. “It’s all right.”
The flow slows, on her face. I hand her the box of Kleenex. She swabs herself.
“I don’t know what I’ll do, now. I can’t afford student loans.”
“At least he doesn’t know you were there, right?” Doc tells her.
“Oh my God!”
She clutches a hand to her mouth. I reach across the table and put my hand on her shoulder.
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if he knew you were there, Beth,” I explain. “He killed the guy at the door, this Lou guy, because he wasn’t leaving any witnesses. If he was aware of you, there would’ve been three of you on the floor. And he’s never going to know. We will protect you. And I know some guys who might be able to point you to part time work. It won’t pay as much, probably, but it’ll get you by.”
She looks at me with terror still in her eyes, but I think she’s beginning to calm herself, now.
“You’ll protect me?”
“Sure. You’re an eye witness. That makes you very valuable to us,” I explain.
“But I never saw his face,” she protests.
“He doesn’t know that,” Doc tells her. “He doesn’t even know anyone was there. But you’re still our only eyeball at Britches, so we’re going to take excellent care of you, Miss Marx. You have our word.”
She looks like she believes my partner, and the tightness in her face begins to soften.
“I just worked there so I could go to school. I want to be a grade school teacher. Kindergarten, I think. Maybe first grade. I love little kids. You know?”
*
We’re at White Castle, as always, on dinner break, when he approaches. It’s 9:55 P.M., and we’ve got two hours left in our shift. The killings at the night club occupied most of today’s tour.
We’re sitting at the bar, and he stands behind us. When I saw him walk up to us, I knew he was police. He’s a medium sized, non-descript man, wearing a suit and tie. Who else but a cop is dressed like that this late at night?
“My name is Terry O’Toole,” he tells us as we swivel toward him. “Can we sit in a booth?”
We agree and join him in a booth farthest from the entrance, although the Castle at 95th and Kedzie is almost deserted. There are only three or four other patrons scattered inside with us, and all of them are nowhere in earshot.
“I’m with Internal Affairs. I hope that doesn’t make my breath offensive to either of you,” O’Toole says straight-faced.
“Some of my best friends…,” Doc smiles at his lame joke.
“I heard you two are looking into the two Outfit killings.”
“We are,” I answer.
“Since murder is involved, I feel inclined to share some wealth, even though it might be frowned upon by my superiors. I used to work Homicide, too, about eight years back.”
The guy is strictly dead pan. He must be a great poker player—no ‘tell’.
“So?” Doc prods.
“Are you two aware that Detective Skotadi, who I hear is on your radar for disposing of his wife, was on Frank Pastore’s pad?”
“No shit?” Doc laughs.
“No shit,” O’Toole fires back.
“Game changer,” I add.
“I thought you might think so. It just might insert Skotadi as a player in all this,” the IA man ventures. “I don’t mean to tell you two your business. We’ve been watching this Vice cop for months, but we haven’t had much to go on. He’s very sly. But we’ve seen him in Pastore’s joint several times, late at night, after hours. We, unfortunately, were not following him the night of Pastore’s demise. Bad luck, right? But we don’t have the funds to follow Skotadi 7/365. You know how that works, I presume?”
I nod back at him.
“I just thought you guys should have a head’s up on this prick. Word is that he likely capped his spouse. Is that accurate?”
“We like him, yes,” I answer.
“We’re fighting a losing battle with this Vice piece of garbage, but I figure if I can help hang him, it’s like a moral victory, you know?”
“I appreciate it, Detective O’Toole. It’s refreshing to see some cross-department cooperation, at least once in my lifetime,” I smile.
I extend him my hand, and then so does Doc.
“This Skotadi is no damn good. That’s what makes our investigation so frustrating. You know how it is when the hair on the back of your neck just stands up when you encounter somebody dirty? That’s how I am around him.”
He stands up.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in the loop about him, now that you figure he’s done a multiple. At least I know he’s a likely candidate. The guy’s like a cave with no bottom, you know? He actually scares me a little, and most of these assholes we look at just piss me off. Not Skotadi. He’s something else again. My gut says he pulled the trigger on his wife and on those two goons at the night club, but that won’t get him into the courtroom, now, will it.”
He smiles for the first time and drops a ten on the table.
“Dinner’s on me, boys.”
And he walks out before we can thank him.
*
We’re in my cubicle, looking out at the dark waters of Lake Michigan. You wouldn’t know by looking out there now that there’s a Great Lake beyond us.
“What’s going on with this idiot?” Doc demands. “We both agree on the wife angle, but what makes him shoot off the reservation and kill two made men? That’s just nuts, Jimmy.”
“Maybe he’s losing it. Maybe you’re right. But he doesn’t owe any money, so if he took Pastore’s loot it might have been just to make it look like a robbery gone savage.”
“What’s her murder have to do with the other two?”
“I don’t know. It might be that Skotadi had some beef with Pastore, and then he had to do sweet Lou to get rid of the witness. Lou saw him walk in. He must have. Then Beth Marx saw someone waste the bouncer, and the physical description, even without a face, fits Skotadi—big man, six-four or so, wide at the shoulders like a pro wrestler or football player. It’s all absolutely circumstantial, but then this IA cop comes out of the woodwork and hooks Skotadi to the Outfit. Why would he be over there late at night after closing? And multiple times. It isn’t to get a free honk job from one of the girls. Skotadi was getting paid for letting Pastore’s employees do their things in the back.”
“So why would he kill the cash cow, his employer?” Doc asks.
“My brain hurts,” I groan.
“What else would he want from a guy like Frank Pastore?” I lay out there.
“Pastore has connections. What would Skotadi want, other than pad money, from him?”
*
We get called to an apartment on the northwest side when the landlord smells something evil emanating from one of his flats. The landlord, Emil Carlson, opens the door for Doc and me.
The stench leads us right into the bedroom. This corpse has had some time to ripen, so I pry open the bedroom window, but it doesn’t help a whole lot. Doc uses the vic’s phone, out in the kitchen, and calls in for the troops. The ME’s on his way, Doc informs me.
Then he looks down at the face, or what’s left of it, and he stares at me.
“I know this son of a bitch. I put him away sixteen years ago, but I can’t forget this rat-faced bastard. He’s an arsonist, Jimmy. He’s a torch man.”
We also find out that the arsonist was connected to the Chicago Outfit, that he did lots of work for them, and that he
was a known associate of Frank Pastore.
“Connect the dots. They all hook up with Frank Pastore and Derek Skotadi—and the burner boy is attached to both of them.”
I watch my partner and see the wheels moving in his brain.
“And why does an arsonist get shot with the same caliber round as Frank Pastore and Lou Whatsisname? Ballistics say it was the same weapon used in all three shootings, ergo, it was the guy with the big shoulders at Britches, who we both think was Derek Skotadi. And let’s say Derek wanted a burn done for him. What’s he got to burn, Jimmy? Only damn thing he owns is his house. And why’s he want to torch his place? To get the insurance? Why doesn’t he just sell the damn thing and do it the easy way? Is the house a hard sale? Was it even up for sale? We have some business to attend to.”
“Hell, who knows, Doc? Maybe he was trying to get rid of it, but there’s something wrong with the property.”
I look out at the Lake again.
“Maybe the damned place is haunted, Doc.”
Chapter 5
“I don’t know what it is I can do. I know his name, and he’s all the way up in Chicago, and I ain’t a cop. I just kill gators and sell them to make my bread. And it’s expensive to drive all the way up north.”
Leonard stands at the shore side of his dock, and this puff of white smoke, this Lady in the Lake, stands, or hovers, or whatever it is that she does, and she will not say a word to him.
“Stubborn, that’s what you are. And even though Mama and Joellen saw you, I still think you’re a figment of my goddam imagination, and Lady, I gotta tell you, you’re wearing me the hell out. I’m back to no sleep, unless I fall asleep in the damned boat, and that’s a dangerous damn place to black out. Then the gators’ll have me, and then where will your little vendetta against that cop husband of yours be? Huh? I’m not some damn avenging angel, Lady. I’m an ex-grunt who can barely pay his bills.
“And that Chicago policeman, that Jimmy Parisi, is doing everything he knows how to put that bastard in the jailhouse for you. And when he gets in prison, you can re-locate off this goddam dock and leave me the hell alone and you can haunt that Vice cop’s ass in the lockdown up north, with him and his new roommate. So how ‘bout it? Can you give me a break and go haunt up north where it’ll do you some good? You’re not from these parts. You don’t belong here. You’re a city girl, so that’s where you should be. I should get that priest back here. Maybe this time you’ll be kind enough to show yourself to him, too. It’s not like I’m your only audience. You like to hover around for other folks, too. You got a little ham in you, don’t you.
