The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  He entered the building through the ground-floor lobby. Although it was still early, the area was alive with activity. To his left, two men were being booked on charges of theft. To his right, a young woman was being booked on suspicion of drug possession, and, on the far side of the room, two middle-aged women who looked as though they should be standing in front of a classroom were, instead, being charged with solicitation by an undercover officer.

  Upstairs in the squad room, Hughbanks and Chin were hunched over Chin’s desk, preparing to meet with the assistant state’s attorney. Their drug-bust case was still yielding results, netting a large swathe of the city’s gang hierarchy.

  Campello paused at his desk, as he did every morning, to hang his jacket over the back of his chair and take his CPD mug to the coffee maker. He poured a cup from the half-full pot and replaced it on the hotplate.

  He paused to glance around the room as he drank the coffee. Except for Hughbanks and Chin it was empty and unusually quiet. He rapped on the open door of Lopez’s office.

  The commander was on the phone and motioned him into the office. Campello entered, but left the door open. When Lopez hung up, Campello said, “What happened to Longhorse?”

  “He died.”

  “He didn’t die, Julio. He hanged himself. There’s a big difference.”

  “Is there, now?” He folded his hands on top his head and rocked gently backward in his chair, studying Campello.

  “What’s wrong, Julio?”

  “You said it yourself, Frank. A suspect is dead.”

  “I didn’t say it. You did. I asked what happened.”

  “When did you talk to Longhorse last?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. At the club? I haven’t talked to him since he tried to kill me. That sort of thing raises all kinds of barriers to good communication.”

  “You think this is funny?”

  “I didn’t until now.”

  Lopez glanced into the squad room, lowered his hands to his desk and slid forward in his chair. “Longhorse didn’t hang himself. He was hanged.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  Lopez continued to stare.

  “If I wanted him dead I would’ve done it the day he ambushed me.”

  “He told his attorney you called him a ‘dead man’.”

  “And he is, isn’t he? I told him that his best chance was to cooperate with us. That if he didn’t, his associates would assume he squealed.”

  “Where’ve you been, by the way? It’s after ten.”

  “I was interviewing Gloria Perez. She gave me some very good background on Peter Green.”

  Lopez inhaled sharply through his teeth. “You’ve arrested him twice and each time he’s walked. His old man can make a lot of trouble for this department. Focus on the murder, Frank. You’re putting me in a difficult position here.”

  “I am focusing on the murder, Julio. Peter Green did it and I know it and so do you.”

  Lopez rose from his chair and began jabbing his finger at Campello in staccato bursts, punctuating each word. “You-don’t-have-any-forensic-evidence-at-all.”

  Campello set his mug on the desk. “So what? How many times do we ever have enough forensic evidence? This guy did it, Bobby Longhorse said he did and we had gathered enough evidence to issue a warrant, but then it disappeared.”

  “Watch it, Frank. You’re coming dangerously close to—”

  “To what, Julio? Insubordination?” He rose from the chair and stood, meeting the district commander eye to eye. “Let me repeat this, in the event there is a misunderstanding. Peter Green killed Trina Martinez and likely killed Rita Chavez and I’m going to put him in jail for it if it’s the last thing I do.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Peter was off the hook again, at least for now, and that allowed Aaron time to plan for the future. The repeated harassment of the CPD was not entirely unjustified, of course, and he knew that sooner or later his son was going to pay for his crimes – real or imagined. But for now he was free and that would allow Aaron the time to devise a definitive plan to keep him that way.

  His appointment with Anthony Delgado and Paulie Vincent was scheduled for noon, a lunch meeting to be held at Vincent’s home. The three men sat around an imported table in the dining-room while a fire crackled in the fireplace. Vincent sat at the head in his motorized wheelchair, tethered to the oxygen tank that hung surreptitiously over the back. Tony Delgado sat with a glass of red wine and a cigar. Aaron Green had red wine too.

  “Aaron,” Vincent said, in a voice raspy from the flow of oxygen, “how is Peter doing?” His words came slowly, his sentences broken by deep gasps.

  “He’s home, Mr. Vincent.”

  Vincent nodded. “He is giving you trouble.”

  “He has. But it isn’t a problem that cannot be resolved.” He grinned collegially and spread his hands. “Kids. Do they ever grow up?”

  “He is not a kid, Aaron,” Delgado said. “He’s thirty years old.”

  The alderman fought to suppress a flash of anger. “Not everyone matures as quickly as they should. But I think this last episode with the police has made him aware he is traveling down the wrong road. I know he is prepared to take the necessary steps to alter his course and I am ready to help him.”

  Delgado inhaled on the cigar then nodded in acknowledgment. “I am sure he will do well, Aaron. You are a good father and a good man. The city and your son are fortunate to have you.”

  Delgado was patronizing Aaron and the implicit sarcasm was not lost on him. His anger intensified.

  Vincent turned slightly in his chair to face Delgado. “This witness is no longer a problem? Our interests are protected?”

  Delgado nodded. “Yes sir. They are secure.”

  “Good. Thank you, Tony. Aaron, I think it is time to look at future options for our partnership. Would you agree?”

  Vincent’s use of the word “partnership” was euphemistic. The partnership was dictatorial, though always in a way that was meant to stroke Aaron and make it appear as though any of the decisions made had been his alone. Vincent was kind that way; a true politician who could take the taxpayer’s money from him and then give a portion back in a government subsidy while making the poor schmuck think he was fortunate to have Big Brother protecting his interests. Green knew about such things. He had built a very successful career and an impressive power base doing the same thing.

  “Challenges exist everywhere, Mr. Vincent. Business thrives best when periodic reassessments are done.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Vincent said, puffing between words. “Tony, perhaps you can tell Aaron of our plans?”

  Green sipped the wine, watching as the enforcer nodded gently at Vincent’s request, tapping ash off his cigar.

  “Certainly,” Delgado said. “Aaron, we’ve enjoyed a productive relationship. The transport and facilitating of…” he paused, clearly searching for the right words, “those who would come to our shores for a chance at freedom, the chance for the kind of life we too often take for granted, has been genuinely satisfying while also being financially rewarding. But as with any business, the opportunities are dwindling, particularly in the face of the shifting political climate in this country away from the very heart of its founders. It’s a pity, to be sure, but one we must accept as a reality.” He paused to sip his wine. Vincent’s oxygen tank hissed.

  Delgado continued, “To that end, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a brief overview of where I think we need to head and how we can get there in the most expeditious way possible.” He reached to the floor, at a briefcase that was near his feet. Outside, on the terrace, the wind whipped violently as the sky opened and rain began to pound the city.

  Delgado extracted copies of a prepared summation, stapled and bound in a colored folder, and handed one to Green and one to Vincent. The alderman knew the latter was strictly for show. Delgado knew who buttered his bread and would not have drafted the proposal without Vincent’s express orders to
do so, and certainly would not be dropping the presentation on his employer this way. Vincent would have instigated it and signed off on it prior to the meeting.

  Green pulled a pair of reading glasses from his inside breast pocket, perching them on the end of his nose before opening the folder and reading delgado’s assessment.

  The men read in silence, punctuated only by the click of the oxygen machine and the pounding onslaught of rain. The report ran the numbers of the last quarter versus the costs of doing business. Revenue had fallen as the flood of illegal immigrants found other routes into the US. Although others were also seeking to come to America, it was the Mexicans that generated the greatest revenue, funding the operation and making it a profitable venture. Now, with new fences going up and a sharper focus by the US government on a growing problem, all of that had begun to unravel. Delgado’s new proposal centered on the distribution of weapons, a matter that had always raised the rankles of the government as well as larger portions of the populace. When he was done reading the report, Aaron could feel his anger begin to rise again and the power to suppress it growing weaker by the minute.

  “Guns?” he said, moderating his indignation as he closed the folder and lifted the wine glass.

  “We… Mr. Vincent and I,” Delgado said, with a deferential nod to the crime lord, “feel that the security threat to our way of life that has arisen from the influx of illegal immigrants presents an opportunity for profit. I am not talking about all illegals, of course, but certainly, as in all businesses, we get the bad with the good. But beyond that, since we live in an increasingly violent age when the number of groups that would do us harm is rising sharply, it seems only prudent that we arm ourselves and our friends. Wouldn’t you agree, Aaron?”

  He swallowed the wine and set his glass on the table. He was aware that Vincent had shifted his large head toward him and was awaiting his reply.

  “Of course. It is hard to live in these times and not be aware of the escalating threats against our liberty and our safety.”

  “Yes,” Delgado said enthusiastically, nodding in agreement, “that is exactly what I am talking about.”

  “Of course,” Green said, choosing his words carefully, “there are inherent risks with this.”

  “There are with everything,” Delgado said.

  “Naturally,” Green said, peripherally aware that Vincent’s gaze was moving back and forth between them like a man at a tennis tournament. “But in our previous venture we had the support of a large segment of the public. Safe houses, protected routes… these all came into play and gave us a support base extending beyond the one afforded by our customers. In this instance,” he tapped the folder lying on the table, “we have a diminished base of support and the increased threat of the state and the federal governments as well. Offering a chance at liberty to people desiring to flee their poverty was, at the very least, a humanitarian cause. But this,” he tapped the folder again, “increases our risk for exposure, and with exposure comes trouble.”

  Vincent’s head was focused on Delgado. The rain continued to pound the brownstone.

  “These weapons are small and easy to conceal,” Delgado countered. “They are inexpensive and various groups in and around the country are vying for them. These groups are no threat to us. They only pursue each other and that in itself presents an opportunity. As for the government, it has its own problems. Did it not ship arms to a group of Mexican drug gangs? Can’t we do the same? Do we care who kills who, so long as we are not in their sights?” He shook his head. “I think this is a venture that we cannot afford to neglect. The timing is right and the opportunity is at hand, and if we don’t seize it someone else will. And I might add, this is a business that has extended possibilities. There are nations all over the world who have their own problems, internal or external, and they require a steady flow of weapons and ammunition. The federal government has shipped arms to various warring factions for years and has reaped an enormous profit from it. Why should they have unfettered access to such a rich market and the profits it generates?” He paused, puffing on the cigar, waiting for Green’s reply.

  Aware that Vincent was listening, and that he had already put his seal of approval on the plan, Aaron sighed and said, “of course, Tony. You are right, of course. I merely wanted to point out the risks. The plan is fine and I’m sure that my staff and I can implement it with little difficulty. When would you like to begin?”

  Delgado smiled a humorless smile. He glanced briefly, but noticeably to Vincent. “We have to close down the current operation, but as soon as that is done, we can receive our first shipment.”

  The alderman acceded flatly, “I’ll be ready.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Christy smiled when she saw the call was coming from Campello. during their dinner meeting, he had proven to be a pleasant conversationalist and on the drive home, had been deferential to her, even protective, when she got into her car, waiting to be sure it started and that she was on the road safely. Maybe it was the cop in him. Maybe not. But she had to admit she liked his concern and had been touched by it.

  “Hi, detective.”

  “We need to talk. Are you free?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I mean face to face. Somewhere secluded. We’ve got a problem.”

  “What kind of a problem?”

  “Not here. Not over the phone.”

  Nothing in the amount of time she had spent with him had given her any hint that he might be an alarmist. In fact, most cops were restrained and Campello was every bit a cop’s cop. But the tension in his voice betrayed his concern.

  “My place? Thirty minutes?” she asked.

  “Tell me where and I’ll be there.”

  She gave him the address and left the newsroom to meet him.

  The drive to her near North Side apartment took no more than ten minutes, leaving an urgently needed twenty minutes to tidy up the place. Her home was a single-bedroom apartment, and her tendency to put off until tomorrow anything she could ignore today had left a pile of undone laundry, unfolded clothing, unwashed dishes and other debris of life lying about. Campello’s apartment had been nearly immaculate, at least on the surface, with everything in its place. She did not want him seeing how the other half lived, and scurried about restoring the chaos into some semblance of order. For reasons she couldn’t define, Campello’s opinion had become important to her.

  She slid the clothing, laundered and unlaundered, into the hamper, compacting it with enough force to close the lid. Next, she turned to the dishes, rinsing and scraping them, before packing them into the dishwasher where they would at least be out of sight. With a quick application of a duster and the tucking away of some loose notes and other things, the apartment was nearly presentable just as the knock came at the door. She stopped long enough to smooth her hands down her agitated form and took a deep breath. When she opened it and saw him in the doorway she felt a rush she had not felt in years.

  “We’ve got to talk,” he said, entering the apartment, not waiting for an invitation.

  “OK,” she said, taking in his gray button-down Oxford shirt, black slacks and black leather jacket. Christy appreciated the quiet formality of his style and when she stepped aside to allow him to enter, his scent was clean, masculine.

  He looked around the apartment. “Nice place. You spend a lot of time on it.”

  She had not been prepared for the slur, but when she saw genuine appreciation on his face, she knew the comment had not been intended as an insult.

  “Thank you,” she said hastily, feeling every bit the phony as she gestured to the couch.

  He shrugged his jacket off and sat. She asked him if he would like a drink and he suggested a beer. She brought him a bottle, setting it in front of him along with one for herself.

  “Now, what’s the pressing news?” she asked, sounding almost clinical.

  “Longhorse’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

  “How?”

  “Some
one hanged him. I talked with my contact in the coroner’s office. She confirms that he was murdered, based on her initial impressions. She won’t know until she does the autopsy, but that won’t be until tomorrow morning.”

  “So he was silenced?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “But why? He turned on Polanski, so surely he wasn’t a threat to anyone other than him. Why would anyone want him dead now?” She drank from the bottle.

  “Think about it. His testimony before the board was radically different from his admission to Polanski.”

  “Right. I think we already knew that.”

  “And now he’s dead. He was a threat to someone and they eliminated the threat.”

  “We still don’t know who ‘they’ are for sure.”

  He set the beer on the table. “Undoubtedly someone under Vincent’s influence. We may not know the ‘who’ with certainty, but here’s the how.” He began ticking off the fingers of one hand. “One, it could’ve been done by a cop. Unlikely, I’d like to think, but possible, so we need to consider it. Two, a visitor. I’ve checked the visitors’ log and there’s no one registered. Since he was held in segregation for his own safety, there are no witnesses.”

  “How convenient. But how could a visitor even be considered as the killer if no one visited him?”

  “Again,” Campello said, “it goes back to a cop. I said that there were no visitors logged in. I didn’t say he didn’t have visitors. And then there’s possibility three: he actually did kill himself and the postmortem evidence will show that.”

  “So if he was murdered, it leaves us with cop involvement, regardless.”

  “Correct.” He took a long swallow of the beer. “And my commander is suspicious of me.”

  “You? Why?”

  Campello shrugged. “Probably because Longhorse tried to kill me. And during an earlier interview, I told him he was a dead man, even in jail, if his cohorts could get to him.” He sighed and crossed his legs. “And Julio is under pressure. No doubt he’s getting heat from the brass on Peter. We’ve arrested him twice and he’s walked twice and his father holds sway over the department.” He paused to swig the beer, then clearly hesitated.