The Sons of Jude

by Brandt Dodson

  “And that gives you the right to become part of the problem? To join Vincent and his crew?” His hand tightened on the butt of the pistol.

  “Give it a rest,” she said. “People don’t care if Vincent rigs a few elections or runs some girls. All they care about is that no one breaks into their home and steals their television. Crime is personal, Frank. Their only concern is that the bad guys stay away from them. No one gives a rip if points are shaved at a basketball game. That doesn’t matter to them. It’s not personal, Frank.”

  “What Caine and Dorchester did was personal. Personal enough to trigger rioting.”

  She laughed again. “Those riots may have started out with a political agenda, but they’re something far different now and you know it. It’s entitlement, Frank. Those people think they’re entitled.”

  “And how does that make them different from you?”

  She chuckled and pointed her finger at him, while turning to the silent figure. “He’s good with the comebacks.”

  “I’m a good cop, Shelly. I thought you were, too.”

  She moved closer to him, closing the distance. Her hands were free so he shifted his gaze to the figure in the shadow.

  “I’m a realistic cop,” she said. “I see things as they are.”

  “Me too, Shelly. And I don’t like what I see.”

  “Then you’ll have to do something about it. And let me warn you. You have no idea just how big a problem we can be.”

  She stepped back into the shadow and the two of them climbed into her car, pulling away with a squeal.

  Campello exhaled sharply, allowing his hand to slip from the pistol.

  CHAPTER 65

  Christy’s story broke the next morning on page one as Clarence had promised, pushing news of the previous evening’s rioting to page two. By the time she had showered and dressed, her story was being picked up by local broadcasters.

  She was not a typical breakfast eater, often preferring a latte from Starbucks or a breakfast roll over more traditional fare, but she decided to take the time for a brief breakfast before leaving the apartment since it was unlikely there would be time for lunch. The tone of her article had highlighted Juanita delaney as the chief person of interest and had been accusatory toward the CPD with special focus on Peter Green. That meant the fur would soon begin to fly and there was little doubt that she and Demille would be reprimanded by Morgan Tower, the owner and publisher of the paper. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course. She poured herself a bowl of cereal and had just gotten a container of milk from the refrigerator when there was a knock on the door. Her watch read 7 a.m.

  She set the milk on the table and went to the door. Opening it, she found Frank Campello standing in the hallway.

  “Can I come in? I’ve got something to tell you.”

  He told her about the event of the previous night, right down to the direction they left when driving out of the building.

  “They confronted you?” Her hand trembled slightly as she poured milk over her cereal.

  “Most brazen thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot.”

  She held her hands to her mouth in wonderment. “This puts a whole new color on things.”

  “It does for me. I’ve got to go in there today and work with them like I don’t know a thing.” He shook his head. “I’m starting to feel like you. Who do I trust? Where do I go?”

  “You can trust me. You can trust the people.”

  He couldn’t stifle his laugh. “The people? You sound like some hippy revolutionary from the sixties. People don’t care, sweetheart. Shelly was right. Crime is personal. No one cares what the cops or politicians do until it affects them directly. Let some snippy senator take a bribe to fix a transportation bill that puts hundreds out of work and no one says a thing. But let a local alderman arrange a garbage strike and everyone’s up in arms.”

  “Your choice of example is apropos.”

  He shook his head. “You keep using big words around me and I’m going to have to get a dictionary.”

  She laughed. His humor eased her tension.

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that Green or the garbage strike is pertinent,” he said.

  She crossed her arms as a frown creased her face.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Why now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why now, Frank? Why did they confront you now?” She ate a bit of the cereal and pushed the box across the table to Campello. He shook his head.

  “It’s pretty obvious that they’ve seen the difference in me,” he said. “I shook them up yesterday. I’m sure that didn’t help.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded. “Maybe.”

  “Do you think they could’ve gotten an early edition of the paper?”

  She shook her head. “Anything is possible, of course, but that would be very unlikely. It was rushed to press late last night. Other than Clarence and me, no one else knew about it.”

  Campello raised an eyebrow.

  “No. Don’t, Frank. He’s above reproach. It wasn’t even his idea and he’s going to take a lot of heat over this.”

  Campello kept his eyes fixed on her and she held his gaze, determined that he not bring Demille into the swill that was Chicago politics.

  “OK, OK,” he said, relenting.

  “Besides, we now have a bigger problem,” she said.

  “Juanita.” He had already thought of her.

  “Exactly. How will we know if she decides to come in?”

  “It’s a cinch she won’t contact me. And since I’m persona non grata with the boss, and since I don’t know who’s in league with Shelly, I’m going to have to keep an eye on everyone.”

  “If she doesn’t come in, it could mean she’s out of town, and in that case our efforts were for nothing,” she said. “Or she could be dead. The end result is the same.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think she’s dead. The baby was missing and so were its clothes. It’s more likely she’s on the run.”

  “Is there any chance that someone she knows might reach out to you? Does she have any close friends?” he rubbed fatigue from his eyes before glancing around the kitchen. “Do you have any coffee?”

  “Sure.” She left the table, started up her coffee maker, then came and sat back down.

  “She does have at least one friend,” he said, giving her Gloria’s name. “So far, she’s been resistant to helping me other than some background information.”

  “The stakes are higher now. Different,” she said. “Maybe she’ll be more willing if she understands that.”

  “Maybe.”

  She pushed the box of cereal, the bowl, and the carton of milk aside. “What’re you going to do, Frank?”

  He stroked his chin. “I think I’ll go to Gloria’s. It’s worth a shot. Besides, I don’t have a lot of options.”

  “No, I mean, what are you going to do about your job?”

  “I’ll just have to do it.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Now I know how Polanski must have felt. Except he had his wife for support.”

  She looked at him, aghast. “And you have me!”

  CHAPTER 66

  Peter Green was livid. He was sitting at a circular glass-topped dining-table with a bowl of Fruit Loops, wearing striped PJs. The article in the Chicago Star painted him as a no-good son of his father; portrayed him as someone who lived off the fat of the land without making a useful contribution. At best, he appeared as the inept operator of a second-rate strip joint that was given to a wayward and incompetent son by his rich daddy. According to the article, the club was intended as a means of provision, given his multiple failures at virtually everything else, and could hopefully sustain him when he would one day be on his own. But Peter was a loser and the paper even quoted one of the dancers as saying he was “in it for the lap dances”. To top it off, the reporter had researched his academic record and then raised questions on how he gained admissions to the Ivy League schools i
n the first place. The entire thrust of the article, as far as he was concerned, was to demean and belittle him.

  He flung the paper across the room and banged his fist against his forehead, cursing wildly. Tears formed in his eyes as he shook with rage. Everything he’d built was in jeopardy. Powerful clients would not do business with him if there was a risk they’d be exposed in the news.

  “It’s not true, it’s not true! I can do things, too. I’m not like you said.”

  He slapped at the bowl of cereal, knocking if off the table and onto the floor, and shot upright out of his chair. He began to pace the length of the room before coming to rest in front of the window that looked down onto the city his father had ruled for decades.

  His father. The old man couldn’t do anything without a battery of lawyers.

  And Vincent. The story had been accurate about that. The old man was in servitude to Vincent.

  He chuckled. Then just as suddenly, he recalled his portrayal in the paper. And the rage rose again.

  “What do I do? What do I do?”

  His voice echoed in the spacious condo. There was no one to ask for help; nowhere to turn. Baranova had done all he could do and Campello would be dealt with. But there was that reporter. That…

  The paper was lying on the floor where he had flung it. He knelt to pick it up.

  “Christy,” he said, unfolding the first page and studying the byline. “Christy Lee.”

  He marched to the window again and looked across the overcast sky. Several buildings away, across the street from the Wrigley building, stood the offices of the Chicago Star. That was where she worked. That was where she had made a fool of him for all Chicago to see. She had destroyed, with one article, everything he had taken great pains to build. He would not be able to enter the club without hearing the snickers, and wondering who among the dancers had such little respect for him that she would slander his name. And that other chick. The one who was with Hoppity.

  He quickly scanned the article.

  “Delaney. Juanita Delaney.” He couldn’t remember her. There had been so many. But she would remember him. So would that skank in the office across the river. They would remember him for as long as they lived.

  CHAPTER 67

  Campello left his apartment for a run along Michigan Avenue. He was dressed in a blue vinyl coat, a red toboggan cap, and New Balance running shoes. The chilled brisk air was invigorating. It had been a while since he’d been able to exercise and his stress level reflected it.

  His route took him past the fabled Golden Mile, across the river and as far south as the art museum and the diner where he and Christy shared their first real time alone. He went round the next intersection and was on his way back when his phone rang. He paused running long enough to answer it, but continued to jog in place. It was Gloria.

  “I’ve heard from Juanita.”

  “Where is she?” he asked, stopping to focus on the call. “She’s afraid.”

  “She should be.

  She’s caught in the crosshairs of warring factions.” A bus drove past and he put a finger in his free ear to better hear the conversation. “All of Chicago has read the article by now.”

  “She didn’t set you up. Not willingly.”

  “I figured that. But I also know she’s expendable and when she becomes a liability they’ll kill her.”

  There was silence on Gloria’s end of the line.

  Campello said, “I can help her. Where is she?”

  “I need to call her first.”

  “By all means, but do it quickly. Time is running out.”

  He hung up and resumed his northbound run toward home. When he rounded the corner to his apartment, his phone rang. Juanita was willing to come in.

  They drove to the far northwestern suburb of Arlington Heights and to an apartment complex on the Southwest Side. The place was nice, several notches above the apartment that Juanita had occupied in Chicago. Gloria got out of the car with Campello.

  “Let me ring her first. When she sees me, I’ll motion for you.”

  He agreed to wait while she made the initial approach. Within minutes, Gloria returned to the open doorway of the apartment building and motioned for him.

  He followed her to a second-floor apartment that overlooked a courtyard that lay between the two buildings of the complex. The space was small, with a living-room, a dining area and a galley kitchen between them. Juanita was pacing the floor, holding the baby tightly in her arms. She looked squarely at Campello before glancing back to Gloria.

  “You need to talk to him,” she said to Juanita, reaching to take the baby.

  The woman handed the infant to her friend. “I didn’t want to set you up. They thought they were getting Polanski. All they knew was that he was driving the burgundy-colored car.”

  “I know,” Campello said. “I was able to put that together. Who are they?”

  “Peter Green and Bobby Longhorse.” Juanita’s answer supported the testimony that Longhorse had given Polanski prior to the hearing. She was telling the truth.

  “Did they threaten you?”

  She nodded.

  “How did you get out of town?”

  “Peter’s friend, Tony Delgado, told me he would see to it that I was safe. He said that after the ambush failed, I would be a target for the police.”

  “Did he set you up here?”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “No.”

  “This is my place,” Gloria said. “I sometimes do business here.”

  He was getting the full picture. “Do you work for Gloria?”

  Juanita cast an eye at her benefactor and employer.

  “She has to make a living,” Gloria said, gently bouncing the baby.

  “I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help. Where did Delgado send you?”

  “He put me up in an apartment in Elk Grove. When I saw the article, I knew I had to run. That’s when I called Gloria.”

  “And I told her to come here. I keep a key in the flower-pot out front.”

  Green had already killed one girl; killing another would’ve been no problem. It was more likely that Delgado intervened by playing it smart, and had simply paid for her to leave town, never to return. It was less likely to attract attention than killing her.

  “Juanita, I need to go back to that night with Hoppity. Did detective Adams contact you prior to the shooting?”

  She seemed both startled and relieved by his question. “Yes, but he spent most of his time with Peter.”

  Campello was confused. “Most of his time?”

  She glanced at Gloria then back to Campello. “Yes. But when they found out I was seeing Hoppity, they asked me to talk to him.” Her eyes became pleading. “I don’t know anything about any of that, detective. I really don’t. I just want to take care of my baby and make a living. I—”

  “You don’t know anything about what, Juanita?”

  “About Hoppity’s problems with Peter and detective Adams.”

  Campello had a sinking feeling. “What do you mean?”

  She cast a nervous eye toward Gloria again. The woman nodded, encouraging Juanita to continue.

  “Hoppity was getting big. He sold everything from meth to pills. But Peter wanted to cash in. The escort business was growing, but not bringing in the cash he’d hoped. Hoppity was his main rival and Peter wanted to manipulate him. When he found out I was seeing him, Peter asked me to talk to detective Adams.”

  Campello felt sick. “Did you?”

  “Yes. The detective said that Hoppity was a bad man and would kill me and Clarissa if he thought we were in his way. At first, I thought he was just concerned. You know? Like a cop ought to be. But then he wanted me to set Hoppity up. I refused.”

  “And a few nights later, he showed up and Hoppity was ready.” She began to cry.

  “I told him about detective Adams and he said not to worry. But when both of you showed up he said, ‘This is it’, and then he told me to get down and that
he’d take care of it.”

  “He thought it was an ambush and reacted.”

  “If he hadn’t, you guys would’ve killed him.” Her voice broke.

  “Us guys? You think I’m part of this?”

  “Aren’t you?” She wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Peter started leaning on me and when you came to the apartment, I thought I could offer them something that would get them off my back. They know you, you’re with them, so I couldn’t offer them you. Then they told me about a cop who was snooping around and they wanted him. They said his name was Polanski and said if I didn’t call him, they’d make sure my baby never knew her mother. I called him and covered for you.”

  “Covered for me?”

  She nodded. “During the trial.”

  “Trial? You mean the board review?”

  “I guess. Detective Adams was going to kill Hoppity, so Hoppity came at him first. He’d have killed you too if he could have, but you shot him. They used me to lead them to Hoppity, so they figured they could use me to lead Polanski to them. That’s why I didn’t tell you anything that day. I had already called the station to get him and left a message. I thought you were coming instead, so I kept quiet. If he didn’t show, I would be dead.”

  “There was no one with you at the apartment that day?”

  She gave him a confused look before shaking her head. “No. But I couldn’t tell you anything, because you’re with them. They wanted Polanski. Not you.”

  He collapsed on the sofa. her revelation explained a lot. “I covered for you, detective. I covered for you and I didn’t set you up. I just want to be left alone. I want to take care of my baby.”

  He was no longer listening. He had already heard enough.

  CHAPTER 68

  Anthony Delgado entered the brownstone and found Paulie Vincent before the fire. A breakfast tray of soft-boiled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee sat untouched before him. He was as pale as anyone Delgado had ever seen, and the guards standing watch around the house exchanged glances with the enforcer, signaling their belief that Vincent’s time was short.