Campello told him about Lopez’s suspicion that Longhorse would do exactly that.
“So they got to him, too?”
Campello started to speak when the side door opened and Jenny Polanski, followed by Christy Lee, came into the isolated passageway.
“Not now,” Polanski said, looking past his wife and to the reporter.
Christy opened her mouth, but hesitated when she saw the deploring look in Jenny’s eyes. Instead, she said, “If you take this hallway through that door,” she gestured to a door at the end of the passageway, “it will take you past the lobby and out to the main entrance. I can’t promise they won’t be waiting on you, but it’s the best shot you’ve got.”
Jenny Polanski put an arm around her husband. Turning to Christy, she mouthed Thank you, before walking with him along the exit route the reporter had given them.
“That man perjured himself in there,” Christy said, referring to Longhorse, as soon as the Polanskis were out of earshot.
“Andy has irritated some powerful people. And they’re not all cops.”
“Some of them have to be,” she said. “There’s no way this could be pulled off without some interference by the cops.”
Campello couldn’t disagree. “We need to talk about this… devise a plan, maybe. Let’s get out of here and grab something to eat. We can talk.”
“OK. An early dinner sounds good, actually. Where do you want to go?”
“My place.”
She recoiled. “Your place?”
“It’s quiet and out of the public eye… and I can cook.”
She snorted. “I don’t know if I want to be alone with you, detective.”
“Lady, trust me. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Polanski had left with his wife, so Christy and Campello took the tan squad to his apartment. The ride was largely silent, broken only by light conversation that was occasionally peppered with details from the hearing. once home, Campello nosed the car into the underground garage, sliding into his reserved slot. They took the elevator to his floor.
“Take a left,” he said, pointing the way to his apartment.
The hallway carpeting was thin, but in good repair, and sconces positioned along the wall cast a gentle glow of ambient lighting.
He unlocked his door, pushing it open to allow her to enter first. He followed, flicking on the light.
Christy was surprised and intrigued by Campello’s home. It was small, but cozy and well apportioned, not fitting her perception of him at all. The walls were done in a pale yellow, and the off-white carpeting was plush. A flat-screen television rested on an oak credenza, opposite a tasteful arrangement of a sofa and recliners. Several plaques and awards, mementoes of his career, hung on one wall, and a rack of CDs stood to one side. A large ornate bookcase lined the opposite wall, its shelves over-laden with books, some of them stacked two deep. A set of sliding patio doors looked out onto the lake and the city skyline. A small kitchen opened directly onto the living-room; a wine rack rested on the counter.
“Not bad,” she said, “for a narrow-minded cop.” She smiled at him.
“Thank you.” He opened the pantry and began surveying the options for dinner. “Help yourself,” he said, pointing to the wine rack.
She pulled a bottle of Pinot Noir and studied the label while he set a pot of water to boil and prepared the pasta. He heated the stove and prepared the sauce.
She cleared her throat to get his attention. “Do you have a glass or would you prefer I drink from the bottle?”
He winced. “Sorry.” He got two glasses from an overhead cabinet and set them on the counter. She opened the bottle and poured both glasses half full of the red wine.
“It’s going to be a while before dinner is ready.” He gestured to the living-room and she followed his lead, pausing to stop at the bookcase. She ran the fingers of her free hand along the spines of his books, tilting her head to the side as she read the titles.
“Poe, Dickens, Twain… A Tale of Two Cities, I loved that one.”
“Me too,” he said, smiling. “A poignant ending.”
“Emily Dickinson?” She turned to him. “You read poetry?”
“Sure. I read everything. The classics, poetry… contemporary fiction. I’m a big fan of Koontz, Follett… Michael Connelly.”
She smiled. “You are well read, detective.”
He sat on the sofa and she joined him. The city skyline beyond the lakeshore was visible through the patio doors, a twinkling horizon in the approaching darkness.
“I sit on the balcony most evenings,” he said, “when it’s not freezing. The moon, the lake… it’s peaceful. A lot different than the world I inhabit during the day.” His gaze was fixed on the distant cityscape.
He was not the man Christy had projected him to be. The cop-swagger, the hard stance against Polanski… it was bravado; a protective shell. Campello was sensitive. A lonely man in a lonely profession. And she was drawn to him despite herself.
“We need to come up with a plan,” he said, setting his glass on the coffee table and turning his attention to her.
“Who would’ve ever thought?” She sipped her wine, studying him over the rim.
“Strange bedfellows?” he asked.
His choice of words was not lost on her. “Before we begin,” he said, “I need to know that this won’t end up in the papers.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She crossed her legs. “Depends.”
He turned his gaze to her. “No, it doesn’t. Are you interested in doing the right thing or not?”
“Are you?”
He sighed. “We’re not going to get very far, Ms. Lee, if we don’t set some ground rules. There are some things I’m just not going to tell you if I think you’re going to write them up for consumption tomorrow morning.”
He was formal, distant, calling her Ms. Lee. Did he feel what she felt? “But I am a reporter.”
“So how about a compromise? We talk openly with each other and work together on sorting this out. If you feel the need to write anything up, you can use what we find, but you can only use me as an unnamed source. Does that work for you?” He slipped off the sofa to check on dinner.
She sipped the wine and paused to think. When he returned, she said, “OK. But I will reveal anything I think is relevant.”
“Except for my identity.”
She hesitated.
“Or else this is over before we begin.”
She sighed. “OK, it’s a deal. But whatever comes of this, I get an exclusive on it. And I won’t reveal your identity.”
He studied her face in the partial light that came through the glass door from the apartment. “I met with Caine and Dorchester.”
“Yeah?” She slid toward him.
“They so much as admitted they planted the weapon.”
Her eyes widened. “Then that’s it. Polanski is telling the truth.”
He held up a hand. “Now hold on. Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t. It might have been a righteous shoot and they planted the weapon out of a panic and he saw it. Used it as an effective tool.”
“Then their actions would still be wrong. Besides, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“You think he’s being set up?”
He nodded. “I do. But by who?”
She laughed. “Are you for real? The department. Who else?”
“Oh come on, Christy. How can the department pull off something like this by itself ?”
“Like planting drugs in his car? Easy.”
“I mean like getting Longhorse to recant his confession and compelling high-profile dealers to testify against him even at a cost to themselves. Who in the department has that kind of reach?” He shook his head and picked up his wine glass. “Someone else is pulling the strings.”
“Weren’t you visiting with Vincent? Don’t you think that… you do, do
n’t you? You think Paulie Vincent is behind this.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Think about it. All of a sudden there are known dealers coming out of the woodwork to testify against a cop? And then Longhorse takes the stand at the hearing to deepen the allegations?”
“That could mean Aaron Green dances at Vincent’s command, too. If that’s true, Vincent’s reach goes a lot higher than anyone thought and that leaves us with two possibilities. Either he is involved indirectly, or he’s got a pipeline into the 28th that may go through our favorite alderman. And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that.”
He had. But he wasn’t going to admit it. This trust thing with a reporter was new and untested.
“And that means we don’t know who to trust,” she said, “which takes us back to where we were an hour ago.”
He finished his wine. “Right now, we are going to have to put aside our differences and come up with a plan. That OK with you?” The smell of pasta wafted through the apartment.
“Yeah,” she said. “But right now, let’s eat. I’m hungry.”
CHAPTER 50
They dined and then talked until late in the night, assessing the situation and planning strategy. By the time Campello took Christy to her car and returned to his apartment, he was able to get slightly less than four hours’ sleep. The following morning, he checked on his father – a surprise visit that found the old man sleeping comfortably while his breakfast grew cold – and then drove to the Uptown area to meet again with Gloria Perez.
She answered the door on the first knock and he held out two large coffees. “I know you like lattes,” he said, grinning.
She cocked her head to one side and took one of the cups from him. “And just how would you know that?”
“I’m a detective. That means I’m a trained observer.”
A faint smile creased her face and she stepped aside, allowing him to enter.
The apartment was as spotless as it was last time, and once again, a classical tune played.
“Paganini?” he asked, recalling the name from his previous visit.
She grinned and shook her head. “Vivaldi. The Four Seasons.”
“Of course. My mistake.”
She gestured to the sofa and he sat. She took a chair opposite him and removed the lid from the cup. She blew gently, tasted suspiciously, and smiled.
“You heard about detective Polanski,” he said. It was a statement and not a question. News of Polanski’s fall had been the chief topic of the local morning news programs and of the Chicago papers. True to her word, Christy’s name did not appear as a byline on any of them. He knew her restraint was a huge effort for her.
“Yes. Everyone has, detective. When a cop like him falls, it’s news.” She sipped the coffee.
“I believe it was a setup.”
“I have no doubt.”
He set the cup on the coffee table. “Why are you still here? Every lead I have that connects to Peter is gone. Rita is dead, Juanita is missing, and all of the other girls on Rita’s list are unreachable… why are you still here?”
“Chicago is my home.”
He shifted on the sofa and crossed his legs. “That’s it?”
“Did you look at the names on Rita’s list, detective? I mean, really look at them?”
He shrugged. “I called them, but none of them were reachable. At least, not at the numbers I had.”
She repositioned herself, tucking one foot under her. “They’re all illegals, detective. Every one of them. Including Rita.”
“Go on.”
“Green, and I’m talking about the old man, is moving illegals through his warehouse. They are smuggled in trucks from a variety of businesses and locations and brought to Chicago. once they’re here, they can go where they want. Most often, though, he has work lined up for them and he gets a finder’s fee.”
“Aaron Green is working as an employment agency for illegals?”
“Something like that. He collects a fee from groups seeking to import the aliens, and often collects from the aliens themselves. Then he collects a finder’s fee from the employers who are looking for help and even collects campaign donations from them for his protection.”
“How is this tying into the club?”
“Peter is enticing the youngest and most attractive of the girls into dancing with the promise of a large income, stardom… whatever it takes. Some of the girls are led or forced into prostitution and the ones that rebel are sent home.”
“Longhorse told my partner that Trina was killed for refusing Peter’s advances.”
“I don’t doubt it. The old man is bad, but Peter is much worse.” She drank the coffee.
“What about the other girls on the list?”
She shrugged. “Who knows?”
“And that takes me back to my original question. Why are you still here?”
“I’m not an illegal, detective. I was born and raised in Chicago. But I did work at Silk ’n Boots for a while.”
“Doing what? I don’t mean to be indelicate, Gloria, but your name is not on that list for no reason.”
“I started out as a dancer. But Peter kept pushing me to do more for the customers. I needed the money at first, so I agreed. After a while I began to have second thoughts and started to complain. He told me if I was willing to manage the other girls, I wouldn’t have to spend any more time with the customers. I’d have my hands full managing the business.”
“How many girls were involved?”
She shrugged. “Me at first. Just me. But by the time he offered to have me manage the others, I had a pretty good idea that nearly all the girls were involved.”
“Not all?”
“I’m sure there are some that aren’t, but I’d have no idea who they are.”
“Are you working for Peter now?” he asked.
She laughed and shook her head. “You cops. You really are as dumb as they say. Didn’t you talk to Rita?”
“Yeah,” he said, confused.
“Rita began managing the business after I left.”
He glanced around her apartment again. The fine art, the upscale furnishings… “Why was Rita killed?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, but my guess is she got into trouble with Peter.”
“You think he would kill her?”
“In a heartbeat.” She set the empty coffee cup on the table beside her. “You’ve got to understand something, detective. Peter is incredibly sensitive when it comes to his old man.”
“Sensitive? How do you mean?”
“His father is highly successful and highly motivated. Peter is none of those things. But he is prideful. So when Aaron tells him he’s never going to amount to anything, that irritates Peter. He’s started this escort business independently of his family. But he’s running girls out of the warehouse to do it.”
“Does Aaron know this?”
“How could he not? He’s connected. He stays on top of things.”
“And yet he lets Peter keep on keeping on.”
“Of course. There are other players in the scheme.”
“Paulie Vincent?”
She gave him a confused look. “I don’t know who he is, but I know Tony Delgado and his crew. One of them worked me over pretty good one night.”
“What for?”
“I told one of the girls to quit. She was having second thoughts and she wanted out.” She shook her head. “That girl could sing. She wanted a chance to make it in the US so I told her to take off. I was managing the operation so I thought I had the right. You know?”
“Yes.”
“Anyway, word got back to Peter and he slapped me, so I slapped him back. In front of the others. That night, when I was going to my car, one of Delgado’s crew came around.” She shivered. “I was in the hospital for two weeks and rehab for two more. That’s pretty much the time I decided I was going to leave.”
“And Rita?”
“She was seeing Peter and
wanted a chance to manage the girls. I was too banged up to work the johns so I was able to get out.”
“You were lucky.”
“Very. Most of the girls who leave get carried out.”
“So your interaction with Delgado was nil?”
“Yeah. I know he keeps an eye on Aaron’s warehouse and on Peter, and I know Aaron can only go as far as Tony will allow.”
“Was Tony involved with the girls when you were managing?”
She shook her head. “Only to the extent that he wanted to keep Peter happy for Aaron’s sake.”
“That’s probably the reason you’re still alive.”
“Any reason will do,” she said.
CHAPTER 51
Campello checked his BlackBerry for messages after leaving Gloria’s apartment. He and Christy agreed the previous evening on a simple code that they could use if either of them needed a quick response from the other. When scanning along his list of messages, he saw one from her that had the red exclamation point. The message had come in shortly after he arrived at Gloria’s.
It read: Longhorse dead. Story is going to press soon. Thoughts?
He called her and she answered on the second ring.
“Longhorse is dead?”
“As Christopher Columbus. He was found hanging in his cell this morning.”
“How come no one has called me?”
“Did you check your voice mail?”
“There wasn’t a record of it on my phone. It would be there if anyone called.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
She was silent for a moment. “Can you see what you can find out? My editor wants something on it by this evening’s deadline. I want to cover all the bases, but I want to know what I can say that won’t compromise us.”
He was astounded. The woman of the night before was unwilling to do anything that might suggest a surrender of her journalistic integrity.
“I’ll see what I can find out.” He arrived at the 28th, leaving the squad in the segregated lot. Across the top of the car he saw that Tertwiller and Silvio were leaving and were engaged in animated conversation. If they saw him, they gave no indication.
The Sons of Jude Page 19
