“What? What is it?” Christy asked.
“My partner. Not Polanski, Rand. After he was killed I began running his case load. We had worked some of the cases together and I wanted to have a say in what cases were parceled out. I didn’t want the ones I invested time in to disappear. I wanted to see them through to completion, for his sake as well as mine.”
“Sure. I can understand that.”
“The cases are classified by a number. But when I was running through the list, I saw a classification that doesn’t exist.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that it doesn’t exist. It’s a dummy. He was working something he didn’t want anyone to know about, but he wanted to leave a record in the event something happened. It was something important to him that he wanted known if he wasn’t around to see it through.”
“What was it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I made a note of it, but when I went back to check it out, it wasn’t there. It had been deleted out of the computer.”
“The note?”
He shook his head. “No. It was gone. I ran through his list of pending cases again, but this time the case number was gone. It’s like it never existed.”
“Do you still have the file number?”
He nodded. “Yeah, but I can’t retrieve it because he kept it as a private memo. The case number was his device, his way of keeping it safe. It has no official relevance. Now that it’s gone, I don’t know where to look.” He drank the beer. “There’s a much bigger conspiracy than I imagined.”
“But you must have some idea who is working with Peter. You work with these people day in and day out.”
“Yes.” His eyes searched hers. “But it was different today. They were… distant.”
“Your boss? Can you go to him?”
He finished the beer; played with the bottle. “He’s the most distant of all. Hostile, in fact.”
“Then you’re in the same position Polanski was.”
“I know. And that’s why I need your help.”
Christy exhaled slowly. “I’m in. I told you that last night.”
He ceased playing with the bottle and focused his eyes on her. “There’s something else.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Would you want to have dinner again, sometime?”
CHAPTER 54
Peter Green did not like Bobby Longhorse, but the DJ was loyal. Now that he was gone, Peter had to find a new source of support.
The warehouse had provided an opportunity to show the old man that he had what it took to be a success. The club had given him a chance to make a name for himself, securing the necessary political connections to keep it up and running, safe from the prying eyes of the police.
But Polanski had ruined everything by questioning him and then arresting him, jeopardizing the business behind the business. The customers Peter serviced were power brokers in their own right, requiring total anonymity. In large measure due to the quality of the stock he employed, his database of customers and their preferential desires had grown quite large, very quickly. His table of women had grown too, a heady list of Chicago’s movers and shakers developing with it. In all his years as an alderman, his father had yet to wield the type of influence that Peter had been busy accruing. He may not be able to raise funds and slash budgets, but he could raise and slash reputations and the careers that went with them. Like any powerful man, Peter would do what was necessary to survive. But he also had enemies and if he was to remain successful, his enemies would have to be dealt with.
He had tried to explain that to Longhorse one evening while the DJ enjoyed a lap dance, but the dummy took action in a way that would’ve been better left to the professionals. A highly visible attack against a highly visible cop who ended up not being at the site of the ambush anyway. When Peter learned of the attack, he knew he urgently needed a conduit into the 28th district headquarters to ensure that Longhorse kept his mouth shut. But the problem soon solved itself. Longhorse’s big mouth made him a big liability to others as well. Someone, most likely Peter’s father, and probably through Delgado, had managed to convince the man to fall on his sword and recant his testimony. Fortune smiled again when Baranova was appointed as chairman of the IPRA in time for the hearing. But someone still saw Longhorse as a threat and had him eliminated. That left Peter to address the next threat on his own and through his own contacts, which gave him a sense of accomplishment.
Baranova agreed to meet with him at the club. The man was far more brazen than most of Peter’s other clients, and his willingness to risk being seen coming in and out of the club spoke volumes about his audaciousness. And that was exactly what Peter needed most.
Baranova arrived twenty minutes late. He was his usual pompous self, offering no explanation or apology for his tardiness. Instead, he requested a specific girl, one whom he had gotten to know and appreciate. Peter told him she would be available later in the evening, and assured him she was looking forward to it as much as Baranova. But business needed to be done first, and he had a request of the IPRA chairman.
“I need some help with a particular police officer,” Peter said. “He’s becoming a huge problem.”
Baranova was sitting on the couch, a drink in his hand. “Let me guess. Frank Campello.”
Peter winked and shot at the man with a thumb and forefinger. “You guessed right.”
“His partner is being investigated by Internal Affairs. If IAd finds against him, and it’s certain they will,” he paused to drink a bit of the martini, “they will inevitably open an investigation on Campello as well.”
“And how long will that take?”
Baranova paused to think. He shrugged. “Five, six months, I should think.”
“That’s too long. By that time my problems will have escalated.”
“I see. Is there some other way to alleviate the strain?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“There are rumors that he has become quite close with his partner. If that is true, pressure from his fellow officers could be all it takes to drive him out. Or perhaps it could lead to a transfer.”
Peter shook his head. “I had something a little more definitive in mind.”
“Like?” Baranova asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Like seeing that he’s gone now.”
“That was already tried once, and unsuccessfully, I might add.”
He shook his head. “No, no, I’m thinking along political lines. Surely you have some idea, some connection that could help me eliminate this threat.”
Baranova set the martini glass on the nearby table and folded his hands across his belly. “I am not without resources within the department. There are some ways we could defuse the threat, even if we can’t eliminate the man.”
Peter grinned. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
CHAPTER 55
Campello and Christy dined that evening at fogo de Chao’s, a premier Brazilian steakhouse on North LaSalle Street, a half mile north of the Chicago River. He quit work early and took an unusual amount of time preparing for the evening. He had been attracted to her the first time he saw her photo, but her persistent need to be right, her reputation as a journalist who wouldn’t quit, had dampened his earlier feelings. He decided he had never been that much into her, and opted to stay out of her way, leaving her persistent questioning to others. But now that he had spent some time with her, talking to her, even seeing her in her own element, the initial attraction had begun to grow. He felt pleased when she accepted his invitation.
He picked her up at her apartment in his prized Corvette. He was hesitant about taking the Vette at first, but when she smiled on seeing it, even running her hand along one of the polished fenders, he knew he had made the right choice.
He promised himself, and her, that he would not discuss the job. He was convinced that his passion for his work and his loyalty to his colleagues had been, in part, to blame for his previous marriage
failures and he didn’t want to make that mistake again. Christy seemed to be everything the others weren’t. She was smart, independent, sassy to a fault, but nevertheless she had the temerity to do what was right and reassess her feelings in light of new information. Her willingness to work with him, despite her mistrust of the police, spoke volumes to him.
They arrived a bit early but were ushered to the bar. She ordered a caipirinha and he had a Brazilian beer. Although they had already spent time together, had even argued, their time at the bar was a bit awkward for him. This was a date. A true date. And that fact alone complicated the situation, bringing new stress into the evening. But by the time they were called to their table and had visited the salad bar, he was beginning to relax and enjoy their time together.
“Are you from here?” he asked.
She pushed the salad around on her plate. “Born and raised. My Dad drove a truck and my Mom was a domestic diva.” She smiled broadly. “How about you?”
“Oh yeah. Chicago through and through. My Dad was a cop, but you already know that. My Mom died early and Dad and I had a time to bond before the women started passing through his life. You know, lonely man meets lonelier woman?” He shrugged. “At any rate, none of them took a liking to me so none of them stayed very long.” He ate a bit of salad. “But I’ve told you all this already, haven’t I?” Way to go, big boy. Impress the lady with old gossip.
She smiled. “Did you have many friends?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I was always a popular kid. Good at sports. But that’s not the same as family.”
“No grandparents? No extended family?” She ate a crouton.
“No. Just Dad and me. He’s an only child like me, and Mom’s family never cared for him, so when she died they pretty much walked out of my life too. I think that’s why the department is so important to me. It’s the only family I have.”
She grinned. “We weren’t going to talk about work this evening, remember?”
They finished the salad and began the main course with a broiled rib-eye. After the steak was served he told her a joke – one of four he knew – and she laughed, holding her hand to her mouth in a way that he found endearing.
“I heard that one a long time ago.” He cut the rib-eye into smaller pieces. “So why journalism?”
“I like the idea of searching out the story behind the facts. In what other career can you do that?” She ate a bite of steak.
“Then you should’ve been a cop. Searching out the facts behind the story is what I do all day.”
She shook her head, holding her hand to her mouth while she chewed. “No, that’s backward. You search out the facts behind the story. You’re looking for the cold hard truth. Just the facts, ma’am,” she said, mockingly. “But I want the story. You want to know how someone was murdered and who did it. That’s your job. But I want to know why? Who was she? What’s her story?”
“But we’re both into finding the truth. Whether it comes from the facts or the story, we want to know what happened,” he said.
She nodded. “I guess. But law enforcement wasn’t an option for me. First, as I told you, there is my brother. That alone precluded me from ever looking at police work as a career opportunity. But there’s also my love of writing. I like putting words on a page in a way that makes sense. I could never do that as a cop. But as a journalist…” she shrugged, “it seemed like the only real choice for me.”
“When did you decide to pursue journalism? You must’ve had some influence along the way. Some encouragement from someone.”
She rearranged a fried banana on her plate. “oh yes. When I say it was the only real choice, I mean a practical option, because I wanted to write fiction. I started out in college as an accounting major, if you can believe that. Numbers.” She smiled in disbelief. “I don’t even like to balance my check book. But I like to write. My short stories seemed to capture the professor’s attention. When I decided I was pursuing the wrong course of study and expressed a desire to write, my lit professor advised me to look into journalism. Like you, I was a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe, but Poe died broke. When my professor told me nearly all writers die like that, it didn’t take long to figure out that writers need a second source of income to survive. Very few make a living from writing novels, and virtually no one does from writing short stories – which is where my interests lie.” She shrugged. “That’s the extent of it, I’m afraid. Nothing earth-shattering in my story. I changed my major to journalism and things took off from there. One of my journalism professors was a great source of encouragement and now he’s my editor.”
“How convenient.”
“Sometimes fate intervenes.”
He shook his head. “I’m not a big believer in fate. I think we make our own way, for better or for worse, and I’ve not always done well there. I’ve been married four times. And I can assure you that each time I married them, I was confident I was doing the right thing. Clearly, I wasn’t. So if I took the position that my experience was fate, I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning. What would be the point? My life would have already been decided by forces greater than me and I would simply be along for the ride.” He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I couldn’t live like that.”
“Four times?”
He had let it slip and from the look on her face, he wished he hadn’t told her. But she needed to know and she might as well know now. “Yeah. Four failed marriages. How about you?”
She shook her head. “Never. I’ve never been married. I haven’t dated all that much. I’ve kept my nose in my work. It doesn’t leave much room for a personal life.”
“Well, there’s that too,” he said. “Work, family. There’s always something.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “I thought you said you didn’t have family.”
“I don’t. Except for my Dad.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I need to see him on the way home. You interested?”
“In what?”
“In going with me. You might as well see the whole story.”
She smiled. “Stories are what I’m all about. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
CHAPTER 56
They left the restaurant and took the Vette north along LaSalle Street, reaching Marimar in less than twenty minutes. Along the way, as always, Campello stopped to pick up his father’s favorite treat.
“How long has he been here?” Christy asked, as soon as they drove into the parking lot.
“Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s five years ago, but he’s been in Marimar for the last two. I had to put him here. I couldn’t take care of him anymore.”
She looked at him with admiration. “You took care of him?”
“What else could I do? He’s my Dad.” He put the car in park. “I had some help. My neighbor is a retired nurse and she would sometimes sit with him when I was working.”
“You didn’t consider putting him in here before that?”
He pocketed the keys. “I thought about it. But in the end, I just couldn’t do it. I was capable of providing for him and seeing that he was clean, safe… fed. But my job is a lot like yours in a way. I don’t have nine-to-five hours. That was OK at first, but as he started to decline, his care was more and more difficult to manage.” He shrugged. “I had to do something and that was Marimar.” He got out of the car and she followed. They entered the facility and walked past the nurses’ station. A nurse on duty smiled when she saw Campello.
“More raisins?” she asked.
“Always. I think he waits for them.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Frank. He waits for you. He may not always be able to show it, but he enjoys your visits.”
Campello and Christy entered the old man’s room and found him sitting in his chair facing the TV. A game show was playing, but his expression told them he was miles away.
“Dad? I’ve brought you some candy.” He handed the bag to his father.
“Who are you?” the old man asked.
�
��I’m Frank, Dad. I’m your son.” He said to her, “We go through this routine every time I come.”
She smiled.
“Dad, I want you to meet someone.”
The old man fished a raisin from the bag and turned toward her with eyes that were vacant. “Who’re you?”
Before she could speak, Campello said, “Her name is Christy.”
“Christy?” He refocused on her. “Are you going to marry my son?”
She started to laugh, putting a hand to her mouth.
“Sorry,” Campello said. “He’s not very diplomatic.”
“You should laugh, sister,” the old man said. “You’d be another one in the bunch.”
Campello’s face reddened.
“Well, look at you,” she said to him, laughing. “Big tough cop embarrassed.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, he can be pretty blunt sometimes.”
“So how about it?” the old man asked. “You going to marry him or what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Do you think I should?”
“Sure. Why not? Everyone else does.” He ate another raisin.
“Good God,” Campello sunk onto the bed.
“He doesn’t stay married for long?” she asked, deciding the opportunity was too good to pass up.
The old man studied his son. “No. Who would want him?”
Campello dropped his face in his hands as Christy laughed all the harder.
“Is he hard to live with?” she asked.
“Well, yes. I ought to know. Why do you think I’m here?” He reached for another raisin.
“This wasn’t a good idea,” Campello said. “Maybe we ought to—”
She held up a hand, stifling another laugh. “Do you want him to get married again?”
The old man turned to his son with eyes that seemed to see him for the first time since he entered the room. “Yes. I want him to be happy. He deserves that much.”
She didn’t laugh anymore.
The Sons of Jude Page 21
