The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  As the well-known house came into view, Campello began searching for a place to park among the other cars pulled against the curb. The brownstone was well protected, isolated from adjoining structures where the police or feds could set up cameras or eavesdropping equipment, and virtually impenetrable from the street or the alley behind.

  Campello saw a delivery vehicle pull away from the curb, directly across the street from the crime lord’s palace. He snapped the magnetized emergency light on top of the car and made a broad U-turn, pulling the unmarked squad into the tight fit. Once parked, he removed the beacon and slid it on the floorboard. He contacted dispatch with his location and paused to scout the area.

  Traffic had thinned this far north and fewer pedestrians populated the streets. An occasional bus would belch its way along the street and a smattering of cabs made pickups and deliveries. But it was the men outside the house that most intrigued him.

  There were two of them. Each of them stood well over six feet, with the broad shoulders, lumbering gaits, and disfigured faces that came from time in the ring. They wore sport coats with tell-tale bulges; in one case, the bulge was under the right armpit; in the case of the other, on the right hip.

  The house was a traditional turn-of-the-last-century brownstone, face-lifted sometime during the past ten years. The three-story structure sported a cupola on each side encased in impressive swathes of ivy. A row of well-pruned trees rose behind a chest-high wrought-iron fence that encased the yard. A majestic staircase led from the flagstone sidewalk to the imposing mahogany front entrance.

  He suppressed his resentment that a creep like Vincent could live among the decent people of the neighborhood, thriving while so many others struggled to put food on the table and clothes on their children’s backs. Crime often does pay, he acknowledged, and it pays well.

  He got out of the car, allowing traffic to pass, then jogged across the street and approached the house. Amazingly, the gate was unlocked and he passed through it before one of the men, the larger and younger of the two, immediately confronted him.

  “This is private property, sir.”

  Campello showed the man his badge and his ID. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Vincent.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “To talk to him?”

  The two looked at each other for a moment, but apparently decided to kick the decision up the chain. “Stay here,” the first man said.

  They left him standing on the sidewalk, but inside the compound, while one went inside and the other resumed his post at the bottom of the steps. Within a minute, the first man came out and nodded to the second man. He motioned for Campello to follow him.

  The living-room was done in pale yellows and an expensive Persian rug overlaid hardwood floors. Despite the close proximity to Dearborn Street and the steady flow of big-city traffic, the condo was surprisingly quiet. A gentle fire flamed in the gas-log fireplace. Two different guards stood in the room, each of them as imposing as the men on the sidewalk.

  Paulie Vincent may not have mellowed since the CPD had begun tracking him, but he had aged and his health had declined. The man sat in a wing-back chair opposite the fireplace, tethered to an oxygen machine by way of a transparent plastic mask that he held over his mouth and nose. The previously robust and jowly face that Campello had seen when perusing the man’s file was now thin, angular, and sallow. His hair was considerably grayer and thinner; his eyes dimmer, although just as penetrating.

  The guards removed themselves from the room as soon as they ushered him in, but made it clear they were within earshot if Vincent needed them.

  Campello sat as soon as the man gestured for him to do so. “Thank you for meeting with me,” he said.

  Vincent nodded, but continued to hold the mask to his face.

  “This is a quasi-official visit,” he lied, “and I’ve come to pay you the courtesy of informing you of something that is threatening both of us.”

  Vincent frowned, but said nothing, opting to keep the mask over his face.

  “A hit was conducted against a police officer and we believe that hit was sanctioned by one of your people.”

  Vincent removed the mask. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rasped, immediately replacing the mask.

  Campello sighed. “Mr. Vincent, I am a police detective with two decades of experience. Please don’t insult me.”

  Vincent studied him through eyes that had narrowed to slits. He removed the mask long enough to speak. “Who do you think arranged this hit?”

  “Anthony Delgado,” he said, tossing a wrench in the man’s world.

  “I don’t know him.”

  Campello snorted. “Well, if you ever meet him, I’d stay away. He’s a very dangerous man and exceedingly stupid. He tried to kill an officer yesterday, and that is something we simply won’t tolerate. We’re going after him and we’re not going to stop until we unwind everything in his sordid world and put as many of his friends in jail as we can.” He stood. “I was under the mistaken impression that he was employed by you. I apologize.”

  Vincent removed the mask. “Thank you for your courtesy, detective. I will not forget it.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Campello was visiting Paulie Vincent and Christy’s curiosity was piqued. Could the detective paired with the most honest cop in Chicago be in bed with a crook that made Al Capone look like Mister Rogers?

  She watched the brownstone from a position one block south, her view partially obscured by a cluster of small trees. There was no mistaking the detective had been ushered directly into Vincent’s inner sanctum without resistance or fanfare. By itself, the visit may be nothing unusual and she had no real reason to suspect Campello of wrongdoing. But Polanski had been assigned to work with him and that aroused her interest in him enough to tail him.

  She sighed and unbuckled her seatbelt. She was no fan of surveillance and knew she could be in the car for a long time. Having had nothing to eat, she began fishing in her purse. She found a packet of gum and removed the foil before popping a stick into her mouth. Twenty minutes later, Campello came out of the house, shaking hands with the two men who had given him access. Her hunger and her curiosity had intensified.

  “What are you up to, detective?”

  She continued watching Campello as he waited until traffic cleared before bolting across the street to his car. He started it and pulled away from the curb, heading in Christy’s direction. She scrunched behind the steering-wheel, making herself as invisible as possible, while watching the detective’s passing car in the driver’s-door mirror. When she was confident that Campello was a discreet distance away, she started her Corolla, reconnected her seatbelt, and drove away from the curb in a traffic-jarring U-turn to begin her pursuit of him.

  They traveled south, winding their way through traffic and working their way onto State Street. Campello drove at a leisurely pace, which made following him at a steady and discreet distance much easier. If he was aware of her, he had given no indication.

  They passed through the north end of the loop and as soon as they had crossed the river the unmarked squad car moved to the turning lane. She followed suit and they were soon heading to the industrial area of the city. Within minutes Campello stopped just short of the entrance gate to Green’s Warehouse with his turn signal flashing. She sped past him and drove on for two blocks, before circling back and parking across the street in the vacant lot of a former trucking firm.

  She killed the engine and clocked the time that Campello had entered the warehouse complex, writing it down in her notebook. The detective had visited Paulie Vincent at home, followed by a call to a business owned by the city’s most powerful alderman, and he had done it all within an hour.

  “What are you up to, detective?” she asked for the second time.

  She glanced at her watch, prepared for a long wait, when a tap on her driver’s-side window jolted her upright. It was Frank Campello and he was not happy.

  CH
APTER 40

  She rolled down the window. “Why are you following me?” he asked.

  Deciding it was fruitless to feign ignorance, she countered with, “Why are you in bed with Vincent?’’ She knew her assumption may not have been true, but the question was provocative and would get her out of a defensive position.

  “I’m not in bed with anyone, Ms. Lee. But I am a cop and you are coming dangerously close to interfering with a police investigation.”

  She had been threatened with arrest before and it held little sway over her. But she was not the favorite journalist of the embattled police department and she knew there were some within the CPD who were just itching for a chance to make an example of her. If she was going to gain ground with Campello, an offense was the best defense.

  “I’m doing a job too, detective. The people have a right to know.”

  His composure relaxed and he smiled. It was off-putting.

  “What do they want to know about, Ms. Lee?”

  “The real reason an honest cop like Polanski was transferred and then assigned to you. How come you’re visiting Paulie Vincent and then a business owned by Aaron Green? And I personally would like to know why you were ambushed in place of your partner.”

  Campello glanced over the top of her car toward Green’s Warehouse, drumming his fingers on the passenger’s-side door-frame. “Open the door, Ms. Lee.”

  “I don’t think I—”

  “If you want answers to your questions, open the door.”

  She reached across the front seat and unlocked the front passenger’s door.

  “Get in, detective.”

  He marched around the rear of the vehicle and climbed inside.

  “Drive,” he said.

  “Where to?”

  He looked over his shoulder toward the office complex. “I don’t care. Just away from here.”

  She started the engine and pulled out of the lot, heading east. She turned south onto Wabash but caught the light at the El tracks. The rumble of the overhead train eliminated any chance at a normal conversation, so as soon as the light turned, she drove east and maneuvered around the block and onto Clark Street, where she began heading north.

  Campello turned to glance back. Satisfied they had not been followed, he said, “I don’t like the press. Especially now. So anything I say to you is off the record.”

  “Now wait a minute. I—”

  “Off the record, Ms. Lee.”

  It was important to find out what Campello was made of, if she was to ferret out the facts behind Polanski’s transfer. She didn’t want to agree to his request, but decided that a conversation with Polanski’s new partner, even if not acknowledgeable, was better than none.

  “OK. Off the record.”

  He shifted in his seat. “What did Polanski have to say?”

  “He said he thought you were a good cop. And beneath all the bravado, probably a decent man.”

  He snorted. “Did he say that about me?”

  His question caught her by surprise and she glanced at him. He was a big man, not unattractive, and the cop-like air she had noticed earlier had given way to a boy-like charm.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, then shook his head in disbelief, and sighed as he idly watched the passing cityscape.

  “Does that upset you?” she asked, priming the well.

  “Upset me?” He chuckled. “I get disappointed from time to time, angered, maybe agitated, but I never get upset. Not anymore. That would imply that I care, and I stopped caring a long time ago, Ms. Lee. I take life a day at a time and don’t put my trust in anyone other than the department.”

  She could not stifle the laugh. “How could you put your faith in the department?”

  He turned toward her. “You just did.”

  He was right and his answer deflated her. She had, in fact, allowed a total stranger into her car just because he carried a star made from fifteen dollars of steel in a twenty-dollar vinyl case.

  “That badge means something, Ms. Lee,” he said, as though he had just crawled out of her head. “I take it seriously. And I trust the men and women who carry it.”

  “So I should trust everyone who carries a badge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you insane? Can you honestly tell me that everyone who carries a badge is a good guy?” She passed a bus that had stopped.

  He turned toward her again. “No. I said you should trust everyone who carries a badge. I didn’t say everyone who carries one is moral or good or even trustworthy.” He turned further in his seat until he fully faced her. “That badge is a symbol, Ms. Lee. My partner died upholding the principles that badge represents. And that’s why you should trust the police. Without that kind of commitment, you don’t have structure and without structure you don’t have anything. That doesn’t mean you won’t get disappointed from time to time or that some wayward cop won’t let you down. But if you don’t trust the police you don’t respect the police, and that means you won’t obey the law.”

  “You do care.”

  “What?”

  “You said you don’t care, but you do.”

  “I was speaking generically. Everyone cares. But not everyone cares about everything. The way people view me or their opinions of me don’t matter. But I insist they respect the job I do.”

  “And what about Polanski?”

  “What about him?”

  “You don’t respect him, and he carries the same badge you do.”

  He groaned. “Because he didn’t trust the police to police their own. He took it outside the family rather than to the cops who police the cops because he didn’t trust the system. That means he doesn’t trust the police, and that, Ms. Lee, puts him in the corral with you. If he doesn’t trust us, he doesn’t respect the law. He has no business enforcing it.”

  “Maybe he was wounded by what he saw,” she said. “Maybe his faith was violated and he didn’t feel like he could trust anyone any longer.”

  “Join the club. I’ve been a cop for twenty years. Don’t you think my faith has been violated? But I don’t give up and I don’t turn on my brothers in blue.”

  The traffic began to thin as they continued moving north and she began to pick up speed. “So you don’t trust him? At all?”

  “I don’t know. He has a candy-eyed view of the world, and in this business that can get you killed.”

  “It seems to me his view is dead on.”

  Campello shook his head. “We aren’t choirboys, Ms. Lee. Sometimes we have to give to get.”

  “In other words, you have changing principles. You sell out.”

  “Do you have a husband, Ms. Lee?”

  She was taken aback by the question. “None of your business.” He chuckled. “Relax, lady. I’m not interested. Do you have anyone you’re close to? A parent? Sibling?”

  “Of course.”

  “Suppose that person had been kidnapped and was buried alive with only a few hours of oxygen left. And suppose I caught the person who did it, but he wouldn’t tell me where your family member was unless I played ball with him. Would you want me to do that or would you want me to take a Polanski-style position and insist he go to jail for the lesser charge, even if that meant your family member would die?”

  “How often does that happen, detective?”

  “Every day, Ms. Lee. We have to play the hand we’re dealt and sometimes that means good cops do bad things.”

  “The ends justify the means?”

  “Sometimes. But you see,” he said, “that’s just my point. Nothing is black and white in my world.”

  “But isn’t the law black and white? Right or wrong?”

  “The law is. But people and their needs are not. Sometimes we have to bend the law to protect the greater good.”

  “So where do you draw the line, then? What’s to keep someone like Caine and Dorchester from planting evidence on anyone they see fit?”

  “The man they allegedly—” he leaned toward her, “pr
esumption of innocence, Ms. Lee – the man they allegedly planted evidence on was wanted for murder and had a list of arrests as long as the Chicago river.”

  “So what?”

  “So they did what the law failed to do. They got him off the streets.”

  “And replaced one criminal with two.”

  He chuckled in a condescending way. Their debate was going nowhere.

  She decided to change course. “How are you going to testify at Polanski’s hearing?”

  “Truthfully, Ms. Lee.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Campello returned to the 28th after Christy dropped him off at his car. A mob of press people had gathered, blocking access to the building’s front entrance and crowding the lobby. He decided to take the back staircase that entered the second floor by way of the locker room.

  The detectives’ squad room was alive with activity and he was nearly mobbed when he came into the room. Tertwiller reached him first.

  “Where’ve you been, Frank?” she said. “We’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I was running down a lead. What happened?” he said, deflecting her.

  “Polanski’s been busted.”

  “What?”

  Silvio said, “Internal Affairs discovered that Polanski contacted some of the dealers that Caine and Dorchester busted. He wanted a piece of their action and agreed to get Caine and Dorchester off their backs.”

  Campello couldn’t hide his disbelief. “Polanski was getting a piece of the dealers’ action in exchange for protections?”

  “IAD thinks so, Frank,” Silvio said. “And they like the guy. Crazy, right?”

  “No one likes him,” Tertwiller corrected, sarcastically. “Even the guys in Internal Affairs are cops first.”

  Campello looked around the room. “Where is he?”

  “Polanski?” Tertwiller asked. “He’s gone. They dragged him out of here a few minutes ago.”