The Chicago Way

by Michael Harvey

  “A hunting dog. Take him out, kill some ducks. I could live with that. But this thing. It’s embarrassing. My wife loves him, so what are you gonna do?”

  “Get a new wife?”

  “Now there’s an idea.”

  The old man folded up his racing form and reached out to shake my hand. A lot of thin bones. Loose flesh and veins. The grip of an old man, with neither the time nor the need to impress the world, including yours truly.

  “Joey tells me you’re a stand-up guy.”

  I shrugged. Vinnie had a thermos at his feet. He pulled it up and poured a cup of coffee.

  “You want some?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Joey’s got extra cups, you want any.”

  “I’m good, Vinnie.”

  He took a small sip and then smacked his lips together two or three times, as if to knock the idea of taste back into them.

  “Fucking coffee. Can you smell that?”

  I nodded. The coffee looked strong and rich.

  “I got no smell, no taste, nothing. This fucking poison they push into my veins. Chemotherapy, my ass. You ever had that?”

  I shook my head. Vinnie crooked a finger my way.

  “Forty years from now, remember what I tell you. Do yourself a favor. Find yourself a nice bathroom and swallow a bullet.”

  Vinnie leaned forward. A gust of wind kicked between us and I caught a whiff of his decay.

  “I spend most of my days in the bathroom,” he said. “These assholes wait outside, trying to figure out if I’m still breathing. I take two, three hours in there, work on the racing form. Get a little peace and quiet. You want to eat a bullet, bathroom is as good a spot as any.”

  I was trying to figure out if I should thank Vinnie for the free advice but the old man just kept rolling.

  “You’re not going to die today, Kelly. Don’t tell me the thought hadn’t crossed your mind. Anyone who comes to meet me, the thought crosses their mind. You’ll go home and you’ll live. Fuck your wife, girlfriend, whatever.”

  The old man pulled a blackened cheroot from an inner pocket and took a look around, as if daring anyone to stop him. No one did, so Vinnie DeLuca lit up.

  “How do you feel about our district attorney, Mr. O’Leary?”

  Vinnie angled his face away and into the sun. The change was subtle, but certain. The death mask was gone. Family business at hand.

  “We have some history,” I said.

  DeLuca took another small sip of coffee, nodded, just the lightest bit of movement, and crossed one leg over the other. He was wearing black wool pants, blue socks, and black shoes with thick rubber soles.

  “Maybe we have a common interest here. In perhaps seeing him at a disadvantage.”

  Vinnie motioned to Joey, who had pulled up close. Now he took a seat on the bench.

  “You know Joey?” the old man said. “Yes, I know you do. He was approached by a contact from the DA’s office a couple of weeks ago. Gentleman wanted to hire some local muscle. Interesting?”

  I nodded. Vinnie nodded.

  “Yes, I thought so, too. Someone inside wanted information on a case your partner was working on.”

  “Former partner,” I said. “But I’m with you.”

  “I told Joey to go along.”

  “See what develops,” I said.

  “Not a bad thing to know what the DA’s office might be interested in. Especially in our line of work. Joseph?”

  Vinnie DeLuca drew on his cigar, then dropped his head to his chin, as if the effort of speaking had exhausted him. Joey picked up the thread.

  “I met this guy once. At a hot dog stand in Cicero. Didn’t know the guy. Seemed pretty nervous. Told me it was a private matter. I pushed a little. He gave me the idea it was someone from the DA’s office who was asking.”

  Palermo offered up a shrug.

  “Maybe he was lying. I don’t know. I was supposed to find out all I could about the old rape Gibbons was working. See if I could locate the case file.”

  “And then Gibbons got dead.”

  Vinnie lifted his eyes a fraction and rejoined the conversation.

  “Not our doing, Mr. Kelly. That’s important.”

  “I never even got to Gibbons,” Joey said. “If I had, it wasn’t going to be like that.”

  “This district attorney, O’Leary,” DeLuca said. “He ruined your career. I know this because we helped him.”

  Vinnie’s eyes shifted across my face but read nothing. He kept talking.

  “The matter intrigues me. I think, perhaps, it also intrigues you.”

  “What do you think is in the file?” I said.

  Vinnie got up to go.

  “I don’t know what’s in the file, but I think you have it. Or can get it. Either way, I leave this information with you. If I profit by whatever course of action you take, all the better. If not, so be it.”

  “Just so you know, chances are I play it straight.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “I know, Vinnie. But can I?”

  “You’ll live to see me in the grave and many days after, Mr. Kelly. Just remember what I told you.”

  “About the file?”

  “About the bathroom and the bullet. Come on, Joey. Pick up the cannolis and let’s go.”

  Chapter 31

  The Drake is classic Chicago. Wide sidewalks and revolving doors. Doormen in black overcoats, whistling taxis and calling everyone sir and ma’am. A red carpet runs up the stairs, across a wide expanse of lobby, and dead-ends at a reception desk staffed by old men wearing black glasses sliding down long noses. These men understand the secrets of Chicago, how to get a window table at NoMI, tickets to Monet at the Art Institute, and, even better, a ducat on the forty for the Bears-Packers. They are in the know and keep it close to the vest, sliding a note across the concierge table and taking a folded fifty at the proper moment.

  “Hey, Eddie.”

  Back in the day, Eddie Flaherty boxed for money. Like most of the Irish, he could take a punch. Like most of the Irish, one day he took too many. Today Eddie was a prime mover at the Drake, hooking up locals, players, and any celebs that came into town.

  “Kelly. What the hell brings you in here?”

  “Been a while.”

  “Four, five years, at least. You were a detective. Then you were in the papers. Then you weren’t a detective anymore. Figured it for some tough luck.”

  I shrugged.

  “Like I said, it’s been a while.”

  “So what brings you in?”

  I had on a tuxedo, gray tie, and my only pair of cuff links. Still, Eddie couldn’t figure it out, so I slid my invitation across the counter. The old fighter pulled out his reading glasses.

  “You heard of this group?” I said.

  “Rape Volunteer Association. Sure. This is their third year here. Heavy hitters, lawyers, doctors, judges. A lot of women who have been, you know, raped. Bad stuff. But good people.”

  “You know who runs the show?”

  “Nah. They’re in and out. Once a year. I think it’s set up through a woman judge, but I couldn’t tell you much more than that.”

  “Thanks, Eddie.”

  “Sure. You going to this thing?”

  I fingered the lapel of my monkey suit.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “A lot of them hang in the Palm. Get tea and all that stuff before the thing gets started.”

  I rapped a knuckle on the desk, drifted across the lobby, and into the Drake’s Palm Court. Amid the marble statues and harp music, tinkling water fountains and green ferns, I spied groups of women. In twos and threes mostly, they feasted on platters of suspiciously small sandwiches, trays of sinfully large desserts, and cup after cup of brown tea. I found an empty seat, ordered an Earl Grey, closed my eyes, and listened to the harpist. He wasn’t playing anything I recognized, so I opened my eyes and took a look around.

  A woman, maybe early forties, crossed her legs and caught my eye.
She was great-looking in that old-money sort of way, with streaked honey-blond hair, white teeth, and a nut-brown tan that screamed desert in the soon-to-be death grip of a Chicago winter. She had the sculpted mouth and thin nose of aristocracy. Her eyes were wide, deep, and intelligent, with more than a little fun lurking somewhere beneath. She had gone to Northwestern or the University of Chicago, was successful, good-looking, and knew it. She was probably out of my league. When I dove in, however, she didn’t seem surprised.

  “I love this stuff,” I said.

  “Stuff?”

  “The tea, the music, just the place.”

  “You come here a lot, do you?”

  Apparently, Irish guys with bent noses are not a common sight in the Palm Court. I ignored the jibe and moved forward.

  “I wouldn’t call myself a regular. But I do like a cup of tea.”

  I hoisted a cup and saucer in her general direction.

  “I’m sure you do, Mr. Kelly. Although rumor has it you litter the stuff with something stronger on occasion.”

  I halted my cup a scant inch, perhaps two, from my lips and returned it to said saucer.

  “I believe I am at a disadvantage, Ms….”

  The woman extended her hand. The grip was firm. The grip was cool. The grip was nice.

  “Rachel Swenson. I’m chair of the association and a friend of Nicole Andrews. I told her I was going to hide out here before we got started. She asked me to watch out for you.”

  “So you staked out the Palm Court?”

  “Actually, I started in the Coq d’Or.”

  She gestured to a large oak door leading to the Drake’s main bar.

  “I was there fifteen minutes, picked up three phone numbers, two room keys, and a vice cop who asked to see my ID. I figured a cup of tea was in order and you could fend for yourself. Then I sat down and found myself seated across from an Irishman looking like a brawl about to happen but with some intelligence around the edges.”

  “That was how Nicole described me?”

  “Something like that. You want to go into the event?”

  “Do we have to?”

  “I am the host.”

  Rachel got up in one motion. She had that Grace Kelly in Rear Window sort of movement. An immaculate, elegant flow you couldn’t learn or even think about. Unless you didn’t have it, that is. Then it was all you thought about. I followed along and caught words as they floated back over her shoulder.

  “So you want to ask me now or later?”

  “Ask what?” I said.

  She stopped halfway up a set of stairs leading out of the Drake lobby and turned.

  “How and why I became chairperson of this group.”

  It was an interesting question. Not as interesting as the fact that Ms. Swenson felt she and I shared the possibility of some sort of “later,” but that would have to wait.

  “It might be because you’re a woman and a judge,” I said. “I figure there’s a bit more to it than that.”

  “There is. Nicole said you’re a private investigator. Used to be a cop.”

  I nodded.

  “Then you know a little bit about rape.”

  “I know I used to hate working them.”

  “You ever visit a victim a year after the attack?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ever think about the range of this crime?”

  “The woman who finds a stranger in her apartment to the little girl who waits for her uncle to knock on the door.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “Exactly. There are so many different strands to sexual assault, and yet we tend to treat them all the same. Like they have the same cause. The same effect on their victims.”

  “And you’re going to change that?”

  “Rape is a complex crime and requires a lot more nuance, Mr. Kelly. Not so much in the investigative aspects. But in the treatment of survivors and in prevention. We need to start talking about that.”

  We walked the rest of the staircase in silence and stepped into the Drake’s Grand Ballroom. I saw Nicole, floating in a crowd at the far end of a roomful of cocktail chatter. Vince the Modern Cop was with her. They looked successful, happy, and poised for more.

  “It was nice meeting you,” Rachel said. “For what it’s worth, your friend Nicole was right.”

  “How so?”

  “She told me you had a different take on things.”

  “You mean for a man?”

  “I mean for a person. Believe me, when it comes to sexual assault and Neanderthal thinking, women take a backseat to no one.”

  “Really?”

  “The ‘she asked for it’ syndrome?” Rachel said. “Fueled by the whispers of countless generations of females. Passing judgment on one another while silently thinking: ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ Don’t get me started. I have a speech to give. It was nice meeting you.”

  And then she was gone, engulfed by a gaggle of women apparently wanting a moment of her time. I grabbed a scotch at the bar and pushed my way toward Nicole.

  “What did you think of our chairwoman?”

  Diane Lindsay had materialized from the left, riding close, hand resting on my shoulder. If Rachel Swenson looked good—and she did—Diane looked better. She was wearing some sort of dress, cream-colored silk and thin enough to be little more than nothing at all. Her body felt alive, tight, and restless underneath. I liked the way she leaned in when she spoke, as if we were the only people in the room. Or at least the only ones who counted. I especially liked her scent.

  “She’s a judge?” I said.

  “Yes, indeed. Not a bad-looking one, either.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You can too, Kelly. Not a sin, you know. By the way, you look hot in a tux.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You ever work with this group?”

  “Nicole Andrews and you are buddies, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She didn’t tell you about my project?”

  We started to walk, working our way through the room.

  “What project?”

  “I interview rape victims for the association. Document their stories. Just me, the subject, and a camera.”

  “Who gets to see the interviews?”

  “Only the subject and whoever else she authorizes. Sometimes it’s just a form of catharsis. They want to get the story out there. Let someone hear it out loud.”

  “And sometimes?”

  “Sometimes they want other women to watch. To see and hear what happened to them. Seems like it’s a good lesson.”

  “Really. How many subjects have you taped?”

  “Over three hundred women. Seven hundred hours of interviews.”

  “Interesting?”

  “You might say.”

  “How so?”

  Diane stopped and considered me for a moment.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I asked.”

  She moved to a spot along a portable bar, waited for a moment until the crowd cleared, and then continued.

  “Among other things, I have on tape at least three women describing in detail how they killed the man that raped them. In two of the cases, the man was her husband.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Absolutely. One made it look like a fall down the stairs. The other went down as a home invasion.”

  I whistled.

  “The authorities know about your project?”

  “Each time the DA’s office stepped in and reviewed the footage. Justifiable homicide. No charges filed.”

  “Who handled it?”

  Diane pointed across the room. Toward a short, bald lawyer, holding an unlit cigar and looking very uncomfortable.

  “Speak of the devil,” Diane said. “I have to go powder something. Why don’t you buy the assistant district attorney a drink?”

  Bennett Davis sidled over, took Diane’s hand, and reached up to kiss her on the cheek.

  “Miss Lindsay. My ten o’clo
ck fix, two hours early.”

  Diane looked even better when she was being admired by another man. And graciously so.

  “Thank you, Mr. Prosecutor. If you could take care of my date here for a moment, I have to find the ladies’.”

  Diane moved off. Bennett took her spot and motioned for a bartender.

  “Her date, Kelly? You didn’t tell me about that. Can I get a scotch on the rocks? Thanks.”

  Bennett got his drink, swirled the ice around with his fingers, and took a sip.

  “No smoke?” I said.

  “Not allowed. Fucking cretins. But hey, don’t change the subject. Diane Lindsay. Come on.”

  “Nice lady,” I said.

  “Yeah, nice.”

  “Listen, Bennett. I don’t know if you had anything to do with O’Leary backing off. Nor am I going to ask.”

  I held up my drink.

  “But if thanks are in order, consider it done.”

  “Forget about it,” Bennett said. “They had nothing, and I told them as much. Anyway, it all blew over.”

  “Just like you said.”

  “Exactly. You get a new girlfriend, and everyone is happy.”

  “Everyone but John Gibbons.”

  “Yeah, everyone but John.”

  “Where is the investigation at?”

  “Don’t know,” Bennett said. “The police are working it, but right now we’re hands off.”

  I thought about Goshen and his visitors from the DA’s office. Then I thought about the street file and my talk with Vinnie DeLuca.

  “You sure about that, Bennett? No one is working this?”

  A wrinkle flew into the lawyer’s brow, and he put his glass back on the bar.

  “What are you hearing?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Bennett leaned closer and I wondered if he wasn’t a bit drunk.

  “Then why are you asking?”

  “Easy. Retired Irish cop murdered at Navy Pier. Just seems like someone from the DA’s office might get involved.”

  Bennett decompressed a bit.

  “Sorry, Michael. Just a little keyed up.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “Internal stuff. Office politics, you know.”

  I didn’t know and didn’t ask. Bennett Davis told me anyway.

  “O’Leary loves to keep us at each other’s throat. His management style. Keeps anyone from getting too big, going after the top job.”