Their car moved up the gravel driveway and Campello, sitting with Polanski on the porch, rose from his chair to greet her as she stepped out of the car.
“I’m so glad to see you,” he said, hugging her.
“I called the local police. They should be on their way.”
Jimmy shook Campello’s hand, then surveyed the area. Tertwiller’s body lay face down, motionless in the dew-soaked grass, ten feet from the porch. Chin was lying face up, less than twenty yards from her, and Hughbanks had been left where he fell, several yards from the rear of the cabin in the dense woods from where he attacked.
“You OK?” she asked.
Campello nodded, still holding Christy close. “Let’s go inside. It’s warmer in there.”
The three of them moved toward the porch, avoiding looking at the two dead detectives, and joined Andy Polanski there before going into the cabin. Once inside, Polanski stood the rifle in one corner and Campello removed the holster from his belt and set the weapon on the small table in the living area, glad to be free of it. The women were in the bedrooms and a pot of coffee was gurgling to its finish on the counter in the kitchen. The fire in the wood-burning stove had burned itself out long ago, but everyone had been too busy and too disrupted to build another fire. The cabin had grown significantly cooler.
“I’ll get some wood,” Jimmy said. “Be back in a sec.” He left the cabin, closing the door behind him.
Campello, Christy and Polanski poured coffee. Christy added creamer and sugar to hers and then joined the men around the table. Juanita came out of the bedroom looking disheveled, but upbeat for the first time since Campello had met her. Gloria remained in the other bedroom, packing.
“Baby asleep?” Christy asked.
Juanita nodded, running a hand through her hair. She poured a cup of coffee and sat at the last vacant seat at the table.
“The locals will be here soon,” Campello said. “Then, and only then, can we call Lopez.” He still wasn’t sure who he could trust and he didn’t want Lopez in the cabin until the local police had a presence.
“There’s going to be a lot of media over this,” Christy said. “In fact, it’s already started.” She grinned.
“What do you mean?” Campello asked.
“Aaron Green called me. He’s turning on Paulie Vincent and his crew. He’s prepared to give names, dates, transaction history… everything.” She sipped the coffee. “Clarence and I have already started the series of articles on it and the first will run…” she paused to glance at her watch, “in approximately two hours.”
“Is he willing to testify?” Polanski asked.
She nodded. “More than that. He’s already begun working with the state’s attorney and the FBI. He will announce his resignation as alderman in a press conference this morning.”
“That’s one conference you won’t want to miss,” Campello said, smiling.
The door opened and Jimmy came in carrying an armload of wood.
“When are we leaving?” Gloria asked, coming out of the bedroom with her hands tucked in the rear pockets of her jeans. “I’ll be glad to—” She looked squarely at Jimmy. “You!”
CHAPTER 78
Before Campello and the others had time to react, Jimmy Small dropped the wood and drew a revolver from the waist-band in the small of his back. “I didn’t want it to end like this, Frank,” he said. “I really didn’t.” He took Campello’s pistol from the holster and held it in his free hand. Polanski’s rifle was across the room and did not pose a threat.
“Jimmy?” Campello said. The name hung in the air like acrid smoke.
“He works for Delgado. He’s the one who worked me over,” Gloria said.
Campello looked from her to the bouncer.
Jimmy motioned with the revolver for her to sit in the living-room chair. “I’m sorry, Frank,” he said again. “But I’ve got to get out of here. If she hadn’t been here,” he pointed with the gun to Gloria, “everything could’ve went on without problems.”
“Jimmy, what…?” Campello said.
Gloria answered for the bouncer. “He’s an enforcer for Delgado. He was hired to watch Peter and the club when Delgado couldn’t be there. He’s the one who probably killed Rita. Delgado never likes to get his hands dirty.”
Sirens could be heard in the distance.
“Into the living-room. Now!” Small motioned with the revolver again. Clarissa began crying in the back bedroom and Juanita rose to tend to her.
“Don’t!” Small said. “Get over here, now! All of you!”
The group at the table rose with their hands elevated and began moving to the center of the room. Polanski closed in on the women to his right and simultaneously moved in front of Campello, revealing the 9mm pistol jutting from a holster behind his back.
“You’re the one who killed Longhorse, aren’t you?” Christy asked, having seen the gun in Polanski’s back and trying to divert Small’s gaze away from the men.
“I never liked that guy.”
“Who covered for you?” she asked. “You had to have help from within the department.”
“That’s none of your concern,” he said, still motioning for them to move into the living-room. “When they find this place on fire, you—”
Campello pulled the pistol from Polanski’s waistband, just as the detective dove sharply to the right, tackling Christy and Juanita and driving them to the floor. Gloria was too far away for him to reach her.
Small fired.
Campello fired.
CHAPTER 79
Radios squawked from squad cars parked on the gravel drive; their blue lights cut a swathe through the cabin. Gloria lay dead, several feet from Jimmy Small’s body. Juanita held Clarissa close to her breast, sitting between Polanski and Christy. Campello was talking to one of the local uniformed officers when he heard a familiar voice.
“Is everyone alright?” It was Julio Lopez. He was standing in the doorway with his star pinned to the collar of his jacket.
Campello, driven by rage, grabbed Lopez by his jacket and drove him into the cabin wall. The officer Campello had been talking with grabbed both of his wrists.
“Detective! Let go.”
“You,” Campello said. “You’ve been at the heart of this since it began.” He repeatedly slammed Lopez into the wall despite the officer’s attempts at restraining him.
“Let go of me, Frank! There’s a lot you don’t know.”
The officer tried to pry Campello’s hands free of Lopez’s jacket but Campello resisted him. “Leave me alone. Don’t you know who this is?”
“I’m Julio Lopez and I’m the commander of the 28th district. That means I’m your boss.”
“Shut up!” Campello said, driving the man harder into the wall.
“Frank, there’s a lot you don’t know,” said Lopez again. “There’s a lot I didn’t know.”
Slowly, deliberately, Campello eased up on Lopez, allowing him to stand erect, but keeping a focused eye on him.
“Sit down, Frank,” Lopez said. “I have something to tell you.”
Campello glanced at the uniformed officer, and then slowly took a seat next to Christy. She gripped his arm.
“Frank, you’re a good cop. Polanski is a good cop and whether you believe me or not, I’m a good cop. But there are some who aren’t and they’ve been in bed with Paulie Vincent for a long time.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Julio.”
Lopez sighed and shook his head. “We… the brass, have known for a long time that Aaron Green was being manipulated by Vincent and his crew. Willingly manipulated. His warehouse has been a conduit for all sorts of contraband and activities that have been essential to Vincent’s business. Most recently, the warehouse has been importing illegals from Mexico and a few from Central and South America. They do it for a fee and then they help these people find employment for an additional fee. But there have been other uses of the warehouse, including drugs, counterfeiting… you name it. T
heir plan now is to import automatic weapons for sale and distribution all over the world. It’s been in the works for a long time, but Vincent only recently informed Green about it. We’ve been monitoring the situation with ATF.” He paused, glancing at Christy. “Christy’s article sped the timetable up considerably and her personalizing of the thing into Peter Green’s lap drove him over the edge. We think he was taken out by some of Vincent’s men, probably Jimmy,” he nodded to the dead enforcer, “and that it had nothing to do with Peter’s planned murder of Christy.”
“You’re saying I was saved by happenstance?” she asked, gently squeezing Campello’s arm.
“Probably,” Lopez said.
“And where does that leave me?” Campello asked. “And was that you with Tertwiller in my garage that night?”
Christy frowned and then looked at Lopez.
“A large number of the officers at the 31st are on Vincent’s payroll. That includes Shelly and her husband. So, yes. I was there that night. They had taken me into their confidence, so I played along until I could iron out who else was involved. At the moment, it includes Hughbanks.” He glanced at his folded hands. “And I know this’ll pain you, Frank, but—”
“Rand.”
Lopez nodded. “Yes. Rand was the leader of the group. He’s the reason I had Polanski transferred to the Castle and assigned to you.”
“To keep an eye on me.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I didn’t know for sure if you were working that closely with Rand or not. So I figured if you were, Polanski might be able to draw you out.”
“Was he aware of this?” Campello looked to Andy, who appeared stunned.
Lopez shook his head. “No. But Silvio is. He’s a righteous cop.”
“So why have you been blocking me? Telling me to lay off Peter?”
“For the same reason I kept telling you to focus on the murder. You were getting too close to an investigation that Internal Affairs started months ago. We were concerned you’d muck it up and we’d lose months of work. We have taps on Aaron Green’s offices and phones, and on Vincent’s. We just couldn’t take a chance.”
“Who let Jimmy in to kill Longhorse?”
“We don’t know. No logs were made, of course, but you can bet that we find who did it. By the way, the tox screen on Longhorse came back. He was definitely drugged before he was hanged. It’s a matter of running down the shifts.” He approached Campello. “Frank, I know this is hard. But you’ll have to trust someone. Start by trusting me.”
CHAPTER 80
Indictments were handed down by the grand jury against seventeen officers in the 31st, including detectives Caine and Dorchester. Charges were dropped against Polanski when Aaron Green testified how the bogus claims were arranged and who arranged them. His resignation did not meet with the outcry he had hoped, signifying that the citizenry of Chicago was far more adept at recognizing fraudulent politicians than he had thought.
Two weeks after the incident at the cabin, Campello and Christy met with the Polanskis at a local pizzeria known for its deep-dish Chicago-style pizza.
“I’ve been given my choice of districts,” Campello said, lifting a heavy slice of sausage-laden pizza from the pan. “But I’m staying at the Castle. I’ve been there too long to quit now. Besides,” he shrugged, “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”
Christy grinned. “You’re phraseology is apropos.”
“There you go again with those big words.”
“Not me,” Polanski said. “I’d just as soon not work with the devil at all.”
Campello shook his head as he bit into the large slice. “It’s a figure of speech, Andy.”
“Maybe. But he’s real and he’s all about corruption. It doesn’t matter if it’s individuals, cities, town, nations, or personal morals. He’s all about destruction. Slow, methodical, incremental, but destruction nevertheless.” He lifted a slice from the pan. “I’m resigning.”
Christy looked at Campello, who stopped mid-bite.
“No, Andy, you can’t mean that!” she said. “Not now. Not when everything has been cleaned out.”
He shook his head. “I was never a cop, Christy. I was trying to clear my father’s name.”
“You succeeded,” Campello said. “You’re everything he wasn’t.”
Polanski shrugged and Jenny held tightly to his arm. “I’m a businessman. It’s what I was made to do. I’m going back to it. Besides,” he said, looking at Christy, “corruption is never fully flushed out. The police will never win, and they will never lose. It’s a war that is fought one battle at a time. And I don’t have the stomach for it anymore.” He nodded to Campello. “But you two make a great team. It’ll be fun to see how it all works out.”
She kissed Campello on the cheek and ruffled his hair. “It will, won’t it?”
Across town, in the brownstone once occupied by the late Paulie Vincent, Anthony Delgado was being installed as head of the family. His first act was to telephone the resources that made his ascension possible and that would herald future success. The people he depended on to nullify the institutions that stood in his way had been loyal. He would need their support and he wanted them to know he valued their input.
“Paulie is gone,” he said in one of these phone conversations. “But I am certain we can continue our long and prosperous relationship. I trust you’ve cleaned up your position and will remain a valuable asset?”
“Count on it,” Silvio said.
Below is an extract from Chicago Knights,
the sequel to The Sons of Jude
CHAPTER 1
3:00 a.m.
Tuesday, June 9
Chicago
Officer Tom Dowd was sitting behind the steering-wheel of his cruiser, parked curbside on Rush Street, just south of the intersection with Delaware. His partner, Jessica Crowley, was typing the report from their last run into the car’s laptop when Dowd suddenly cocked his head.
“What’s up?”
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
The night was unusually warm and the car’s windows were rolled down. He put a finger to his lips. “Just listen.”
The overhead streetlamp partially illuminated the interior, revealing Dowd’s furrowed brow and thin lips. He was fifteen years her senior, wiry and fastidiously neat. He had combed his evaporating hair backward along the sides, giving him an eerily similar appearance to a younger version of the actor Robert duvall.
“You’re hearing things,” she said, redirecting her attention to the computer just as the sound of breaking glass wafted through the canyon formed by the buildings.
“There,” he said. “Hear that?”
She paused with her hands poised over the keyboard. Within seconds, the sound of crashing glass emanated again from somewhere around them. She looked slightly to her right, northeast of their position. “It sounds like it’s coming from over there.”
Dowd started the car and pulled away from the curb, creeping northward along Rush Street. Because the cluster of buildings rendered the acoustics unreliable and made it impossible to pinpoint the exact location of the sound, they visually scanned their respective sides of the street as they advanced. It wasn’t until they were in the intersection that a revving engine drew their attention.
“There!” Crowley said, pointing at a red Porsche Boxster parked along the south side of Delaware.
Dowd stopped and directed his spotlight on the car. A tall man stood amid shards of glass on the passenger’s side of the Porsche, holding a crowbar. He tossed the tool aside and jumped into the car.
Dowd put the cruiser in reverse, aligning it with Delaware before shifting into drive and accelerating around the corner. He flicked on the light bar and siren just as the Porsche rocketed from the curb, heading east. Crowley immediately radioed the dispatcher, giving her a description of the car along with the tag number and the direction they were heading.
“Two suspects,”
she said. “One is a tall black male wearing a dark shirt and pants. The other is unidentified and behind the wheel.”
The dispatcher acknowledged the information and immediately put a call to all units in the area.
As Dowd chased the suspects along Delaware and into the intersection with Michigan Street, the Porsche suddenly turned to the right, nearly flipping from momentum, before racing southward along the famed thoroughfare. They flew past the restaurants, shops and bars for which the Magnificent Mile was known. All had closed hours earlier, and the street was largely deserted.
The cruiser’s radio came alive with chatter as other officers began detailing their efforts to head off the suspects and thwart yet another car theft. The city had seen a sharp upswing in thefts over the last two months.
Dowd stayed with the Porsche, keeping his spotlight focused on the car’s cockpit. The suspect in the passenger’s seat appeared to be giving directions to the driver, pointing excitedly and unintentionally telegraphing to Dowd the direction the thieves intended to go.
He pursued them south along Michigan, past the Wrigley building and over the Chicago River. Both cars hit a sharp dip when they crossed Wacker Drive, causing the suspects and the pursuing officers to bounce in their seats. The Boxster’s tailpipe struck the pavement as the car hit the low-lying area, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
Dowd glanced peripherally at the intersection. There were a few pedestrians on the sidewalks, most likely late-reveling tourists, but they posed no threat to the pursuit nor were they endangered by it. Had the streets been more congested, Dowd would have been forced to abandon the chase. The department’s vehicular pursuit policy had been revamped in 2004 following the death of an innocent civilian in a crash with a fleeing suspect.
Crowley pointed ahead to a bevy of cruisers. Officers were laying Stop Sticks across all of Michigan’s southbound lanes.
Dowd slowed his speed, anticipating that the suspects would turn in an attempt to avoid the barrier. He was right. The Porsche’s brake lights glowed suddenly as the car veered left, heading east on Monroe.
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