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A Rose From The Executioner

Page 27

by Edward Izzi


  I couldn’t remember the last time I had enjoyed myself so much on a date. I was struggling to keep myself from floating up in the air. Olivia Laurent was an incredibly beautiful, smart, classy lady. It was taking all my emotional strength to keep myself from chasing after her in my squad car, pulling her over and making incredible love to her right then and there.

  This all seemed too good to be true, I thought to myself, and my sixth sense started talking to me again. Why was Olivia being so nice to me? Why was she here in Chicago? What was she hiding? Was she being sincere? I started to ask myself a thousand more questions, as I was having such a difficult time getting myself to open and trust another human being, let alone her. She was right, I thought to myself. I was jaded. I disappointedly, got into my squad car and proceeded to drive onto North Milwaukee Avenue.

  At that moment, I only wished for a ‘do-over’ and repeat our wonderful evening together.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kilbane is Missing

  I could barely open my eyes that early morning as I got out of bed, trying to wake up and get myself ready for work. I put on my black bathrobe and made myself a cup of coffee, as Ginger was all too eager to be taken outside for her morning walk. I grabbed her leash and my cup of coffee and took the elevator from my fourth-floor loft to the outside exit. It was only five o’clock in the morning, and my building in the West Loop was desolate on that early warm, sunny morning.

  After bringing my yellow Labrador back inside, I showered, shaved, and ruffled through my closet to find a white shirt that was clean enough to wear that day. As I was getting dressed, I kept thinking about Olivia.

  Our evening the night before was amazing. Even though it didn’t end up in an ‘intimate way’, it was still a great evening. She was so casual, yet so classy. She was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and had an incredible sense of humor. She was smart enough to engage in any topical conversation but was astute enough to know when it was appropriate to voice her personal opinions. She must have realized how broken I was inside…over my ex-wife, my divorce, my failures, and my life. She immediately realized that I had a thick, concrete wall wrapped all around myself and my emotions.

  I maneuvered around the early daybreak traffic that morning on North Milwaukee Avenue, making my usual stop at Dunkin’ Donuts for my large coffee and toasted bagel. As I entered my office, I noticed that there was more than the usual activity going on at the precinct. A few of the other detectives were scurrying about, as there seemed to be way too much activity going on at 7:30am. As I sat down at my desk, you would have never guessed who came strolling in with his unlit cigarette.

  “Hey Philly,” he said, dressed impeccably in one of his new, black pinstriped suits.

  “What’s up, Riz.” I figured I better devour as much of my bagel as I could, before this reporter gives me an upset stomach.

  “Hey did you hear? The Archdiocese just filed a missing person’s report on Kilbane?” Rizzo proclaimed.

  “What? Are you kidding?” as I put down my still warm and toasted sesame seed bagel. ‘Didn’t he just ‘bond out’ of court the other day?” I replied, trying to get my head around this.

  “Yep. A million bucks too. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since the other night. Just heard it over the police blotter,” Rizzo said.

  As Chaz Rizzo walked over to the precinct kitchen to get a cup of that undrinkable Mrs. Folgers coffee, I picked up the desk phone and called Tommy’s cell.

  “I just heard,” he picked up the phone, without even saying ‘Hello’.

  “Who’s going to the Cardinal’s Mansion?” I asked.

  “I’ll leave here in a few minutes. I will meet you there,” Tommy directed.

  At that moment, Chaz Rizzo returned to my desk and started making himself comfortable with his precinct coffee and unlit cigarette.

  “Ok, Carl Bernstein, what’s your take on all of this?” I asked the famous, crime fighting, sleuth news reporter.

  Rizzo just smiled as I offered him half of my sesame seed bagel.

  “I think Little Tony took him on a ‘fishing trip.’ Bet the farm, Philly.”

  “How do you even know that Little Tony is involved? We’ve had him on twenty-four-hour surveillance,” I naively asked.

  “C’mon, Phil. That don’t mean nothin’,” he said, as his Chicago south side accent was more prevalent that morning.

  “He probably ‘decoyed’ you guys and grabbed him. It would only make sense. DiMatteo got to the Monsignor before he ‘ratted him out’ on the ‘murder for hire’ scheme.”

  “I figured something was going to happen, Riz. I just knew it. I’ve been saying all along that Kilbane was safer in jail than on the streets, and it certainly didn’t take him long,” I observed.

  “The Archdiocese had put out a press release the other day, announcing Kilbane’s ‘sabbatical’. He was going to be a professor at Loyola for a while,” Rizzo said with his mouth full.

  “Obviously, Little Tony had other ideas.” I picked up the phone again and called Tommy.

  “Hey Tommy, changed my mind on the Cardinal’s Mansion. Why don’t you guys go ahead and let me know what’s going on. I think we’re going to pay a visit to Little Tony,” I announced.

  “That’s a better idea, Phil. I’ll come along. Meet you there at South Ashland,” Tommy replied.

  Rizzo was finishing up his coffee and then figured he better shove off. “Gotta run, Philly. Have a date at the Cardinal’s mansion,” figuring that the missing Monsignor was going to be his lead story at six o’clock.

  “See you around, Chaz,” I said, as I grabbed my star and my gun from my desk drawer.

  “Oh, by the way, Rizzo. Don’t turn this into another ‘Mafia hit’ story, please? All we have is a missing employee from the Archdiocese,” I was trying to get Rizzo to ‘dial it down’ until we had more facts on the case.

  “A missing employee from the Archdiocese? Who happens to be the most powerful priest in Chicago, after Cardinal Markowitz? Who plots a ‘murder for hire’ scheme with ‘The Boys’, goes on ‘Candid’ Camera’ before murdering a priest, then jumps bail?” Rizzo sarcastically repeated the facts of this case. He then started laughing. “I think you’re trying to get me fired, Philly.”

  “Only in my wildest dreams,” I sarcastically replied.

  As I pulled my squad car into the parking lot of the DiMatteo Tomato Company, Tommy Morton was already there waiting for me. We both got out our cars and looked around the area before entering the building. I developed a habit of looking around for surveillance cameras whenever I pulled into a strange parking lot.

  “Wave to the cameras, “I mentioned to Detective Morton, as we walked around the parking lot. There was an unmarked squad car already parked on the southwest corner of the lot, and I walked over to the black unmarked car. I figured I would ask our guy a few questions.

  Patrolman Mike DiNatale had been following DiMatteo around for the last two weeks, keeping a detailed account of when and where Little Tony was going and whatever his activities had been. I asked him to give me a detailed report over the last seventy-two hours, and he casually mentioned that DiMatteo was basically either at work or going home.

  “It’s been a pretty boring stack-out,” DiNatale said, drinking his coffee.

  “Any chance he may have ditched you, or taken a decoy vehicle and gone elsewhere?” I asked.

  “How? He only has two cars…his Maserati and his Mercedes Limousine, and we’ve had both cars staked out and accounted for.”

  “Any chance he might have slipped away from you?”

  “No way, Phil. We’ve been watching him 24/7. He’s hasn’t gone anywhere or done anything unusual,” he said.

  Tommy and I just looked at each other and shook our heads. I picked my cell phone and called my precinct office.

  “Have one of the detectives over at the mansion check for any surveillance or security cameras for any businesses in the area and see if we can access the tapes.
We’ve got to have a shot of Kilbane leaving his office sometime Tuesday evening,” I instructed.

  “Thanks Mike,” I casually mentioned to the patrolman.

  “How long do you want to stake out this guy?” he asked.

  “Not much longer. I’ll let you know. Kilbane’s gotta turn up somewhere,” Detective Morton replied.

  We both walked into the DiMatteo Tomato plant and flashed our stars to his warehouse manager, who directed us to Tony’s office up on the second floor. When we walked in, his dark-haired secretary was already expecting us in the reception room.

  “Mr. DiMatteo will be right with you,” she mentioned.

  Tommy and I waited for probably twenty minutes or more, as we were both offered espressos and whatever other stale goodies he had laying around at his over expansive, multi-million-dollar warehouse building. We were both expecting DiMatteo to be in one of his cocky moods, so I was rather shocked when he finally appeared out of his office, shaking our hands.

  “Good Morning, Detectives,” as he was very pleasant.

  “Morning, Tony,” I replied, figuring he probably already knew why we were there.

  “Have you guys ever seen my warehouse?” he eagerly asked. We both looked at each other and mentioned that we hadn’t. We were then given the ‘nickel tour’ around his processing plant, his truck warehouse, and all his expansive offices. As we were going around the plant, he brought us into a large office.

  “Have you gentlemen ever met my Controller?” he asked, as a large, heavy set man rose up from behind his desk.

  “This is Sal Marrocco,” he introduced us, as he shook both of our hands. As we were exchanging pleasantries, I noticed a shiny, ruby red cross gold ring that he was wearing on his right hand, and my mind started racing and my hands began to perspire. I pulled my notebook and took down his name, making sure I noted the ruby, red cross, gold ring that he was wearing. As we were leaving his office, I casually said something to the Controller.

  “I like your ring,” as I pointed it out to his attention, trying to gage his reaction.

  “Thanks. My wife got it for me last Christmas,” he replied, in a very deep, raspy voice.

  “Do you happen to know where she purchased it?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll ask her. Probably some expensive jewelry store downtown,” he said.

  We then followed DiMatteo and Marrocco into the adjacent conference room, which had a long, expansive mahogany table and several chairs surrounding it. The room was dimly lit, and had several, large framed photographs of Frank Sinatra and the other Rat Pack images that I would normally expect to see in any Italo-American business office. We both sat down, while Tony walked over to his espresso bar at the corner of the room and made himself an espresso.

  “We may need you to get us some information on that ring, if you don’t mind,” I replied, going back to Marrocco’s red crossed, gold ring.

  “Why?” Marrocco asked.

  “We had a prison cell suicide the other day, and the victim was wearing the same kind of ring,” I replied.

  “There must be a thousand rings like this one, Detective. I’m sure you can run out and buy one yourself,” Marrocco answered. At that moment, Tony started getting a little testy, as we were all sitting around his conference room table.

  “Excuse me, Detective? I bring you around my shop and you guys start asking my controller questions? What kind of fucking shit is this?” DiMatteo exclaimed.

  “It’s alright, Tony,” as Marrocco tried to calm down his boss. “Why are you gentlemen here?” as he pointed his directive towards us.

  “Don’t know if you guys heard, but Monsignor Kilbane went missing the other night, and was wondering if either of you knew anything about it?” Detective Morton asked.

  Little Tony DiMatteo started laughing. “Are you guys fucking serious? You got a guy outside following me around like a lost puppy dog, staked out in my parking lot and at my fucking house for the last two weeks, and you guys wanna know if ‘I know where Kilbane is’?” Marrocco and the ‘Capo’ both looked at each other and started laughing.

  “The last we heard, Monsignor Kilbane was in Cook County Jail for murder,” Marrocco replied.

  “That was the case, but he bonded out Tuesday morning and disappeared the same night,” Detective Morton replied.

  “Can’t help you with that, Detectives,” Marrocco replied, as I realized that Sal Marrocco was really the ‘Consigliere’ to the DiMatteo Family. I had never dealt with Marrocco before, but I remembered what I had heard about him several years ago. He’s a very educated, very street smart, very shrewd attorney who poses as the company ‘Controller’ for Tony DiMatteo’s operations. The ‘Capo’ would never do or say anything without his Consigliere’s permission.

  “Why don’t you ask your copper downstairs in the parking lot, Dorian? He knows where I was.”

  “We already did, Tony.”

  “Then what the hell do you want from us? Do you want us to tell you something juicy, like he’s swimming at the bottom of Lake Michigan with a pair of cement shoes? Come on, Dorian,” Tony smirked.

  “Just thought you might want to volunteer some information. When was the last time you talked to him?” Morton asked.

  ‘I went to confession after mass a week ago over at Holy Name Cathedral, and he was there. But you guys already know this,” Tony replied in his normal, cocky tone of voice.

  “If you really went to Holy Name to confess your sins, Tony, you’d probably still be there in the confessional right now,” I observed.

  DiMatteo glared at the two of us, rendering the dirtiest of looks. “I went to mass and I said a few prayers. I confessed a few of my sins to Fr. Joe, and I left. Not that it’s any of your damn business what I do in church, Dorian.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “Where?”

  “In the confessional,” I boldly asked.

  “Really?” Tony surprisingly replied.

  “Let’s see…I said, ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I’ve rubbed out five assholes from my receivable list, slept with three prostitutes and cracked around my wife six times since my last confession,’” Tony sarcastically answered.

  “What the hell kind of question is that, Dorian? I gotta tell you what I say in the goddamn confessional too?” Tony starting to get really aggravated.

  “I think you both better leave, Detectives,” Marrocco suggested, as everyone rose from the conference table.

  We got up, and exited the conference room, as the Consigliere graciously showed us where the exit door was. As we were leaving, Tony mentioned something about asking our ‘stake-out’ patrolman downstairs in the parking lot if he needed to use the bathroom or wanted any coffee.

  I spent the rest of the day in my office, working on any additional leads and information regarding the Kilbane disappearance. There were several businesses on State Street adjacent to the Cardinal’s Mansion that had security cameras, but none of them picked up any activity in the mansion parking lot. There was one business that had a security camera directly aimed in the same direction as the cardinal’s mansion but wasn’t working at the time. There were no witnesses or accounts from anyone who may have seen what happened to the Monsignor after everyone left work that Tuesday evening.

  It was about 5:30pm when I received another visitor. It was Detective Paul Russo from the Intelligence Unit. I had been avoiding him lately, since over stepping him and Commander Callahan at Rush Hospital after the McDougall murder, and he had left me several messages.

  “You’ve been dodging me, Dorian,” he said as he entered my office. He knew I was blowing him off.

  “I figured with Kilbane in jail, you might have some bigger fish to fry,” I replied, not really looking forward to talking to him since his trying to muscle in on these ‘Pedophile Murder’ investigations.

  “What happened to Kilbane,” he asked as he sat at the chair in front of my desk.

  “Looks like he either jumped bai
l or went on vacation, compliments of DiMatteo Travel,” I replied.

  “Have you traced any surveillance tapes or interviewed any witnesses?”

  “There have been none. The cameras surrounding the mansion when Kilbane left work either didn’t have a clear shot or weren’t working Tuesday night,” I replied.

  He sat there for a minute, mulling over the information. The way Russo was asking the questions, I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested in helping me resolve this case or if he was on a fishing expedition.

  “What does DiMatteo have to say?”

  “He’s ‘alibied out’. We’ve had a tail on him for the last few weeks,” I replied, fidgeting with my adjustable pencil.

  “Interesting. Think Little Tony knows something?” he asked.

  “Definitely. He probably rubbed him out himself, thinking he was going to sing,” I said.

  “And his cell phone? Credit cards?”

  “Cell phone is dead. We haven’t put a trace on his credit cards yet.”

  “I’ll have my unit try to tag his cards and see if we have any hits,” he casually replied.

  I was pretty occupied with everything going on at that moment and wasn’t really paying a lot of attention to Russo or what he was saying. I figured he was trying to get his own update on this ‘Missing Monsignor’ case to report back to his superiors, or maybe he was just being nosey.

  “Let’s stay in touch,” he casually said, then got up and began to leave my office. As he offered to shake my hand, I noticed something that shook me to the core, as if a bolt of lightning had suddenly impaled my whole body. This time, I took a good look at his right hand and knew immediately what he was wearing.

  It was an 18-karat gold, ruby, red-crossed ring.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  A Final Redemption

  It was a warm summer evening when the Brother Knights of the Society of the Rose Crucifix gathered at the old, brownstone church on West Division Street. As was their usual ritual, each brother knight arrived at their designated times, wearing their red hooded masks and black tuxedos. It was after eight thirty that evening, and the monthly meeting was late in starting its assembly. Eleven of the gathered brother knights were sitting at the long mahogany table within the vacant church, waiting for two of their remaining brothers to arrive so that the gathering could begin.

 

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