by Marcus Sakey
"Sure." Washington snorted. "Bronzeville, right?"
Owens gave him a cool glare. "Still not Lincoln Park. I had my share of troubles. But just because you came from an underprivileged neighborhood-"
"See, right there, that's part of the problem. You aren't even using the right language. An 'underprivileged neighborhood' you can ignore. A ghetto you have to do something about. This here, this is the ghet-to." Washington turned from the alderman to look at Adam Kent. The man held his gaze, though it was hard to read anything in his eyes. But at least he hadn't walked away. "When you came to me, you said that you had pulled yourself up from nothing. That you wanted to make it easier for others to do the same. You said you needed someone who knew the way the street really worked." He shrugged. "What did you expect?"
Kent nodded barely. "I suppose that's fair." He folded his hands on his knees. "Still, you have to understand. This is half a million dollars we're talking about."
"I do understand." Washington fought the urge to use his preacher voice. "That money can buy food, education, and support for the boys in this neighborhood. It can give these kids something. Teach them that the world is bigger than Crenwood. I had to go to prison to learn that."
Kent chewed on his lip. "Tell me about it."
"What? Prison?"
"Why you went."
A roar, and a hot punch against his hand. Blood spatter like a red mist.
"I killed a boy." He felt stiff, his eyes far away. "I didn't mean to, but I did. Wasn't even an enemy of mine. Just somebody's little brother, got in the way."
"It was an accident?"
"I was in a gang, I carried a gun." Washington shrugged, his shoulders heavy. "Accident isn't the right word."
"What happened?"
The boy with the cauliflower ear spinning, slow, a last pirouette. Falling. A pause while the whole world drew a breath.
"It… doesn't matter."
"It might."
Washington sighed, shook his head to clear visions of that long ago day. "You know what happened? I picked up the gun. Ten years old, I swore myself to the Blackstone Ranger Nation, and I picked up the gun. Once you do that, life is just a clock ticking away. And before I put the gun down, I killed a boy and cost myself twelve years." The room felt claustrophobic, and he fought the urge to stand. "The specifics don't matter. What I did, it's done. It was real. I can't take it back. There's only two things I can do. I can promise never to pick up the gun again, not for anything. And I can help other boys put it down. Which is what I've done for fourteen years. It's why I came back." He stopped to gather his thoughts, realized he'd said all he had to say. "So it's up to you, Mr. Kent, and you, Alderman Owens. You're both good men. You make the decision."
For a long moment, the two of them stared. Washington sat straight, kept his eyes level, fought to the urge to beg, to say again how much good the money could do, how his boys were counting on it, knowing that anything he said now would be a waste.
Then the alderman looked at Kent, and raised an eyebrows. Kent shrugged. "Well, I guess if you're running a long con, it's the longest one in history." He smiled, then laughed. "Maybe I'm crazy, but I'm still going to give you the money."
Washington only realized his mouth was hanging open when he tried to speak. "Thank you."
"Two conditions." Kent counted them on his fingers. "First, I get veto power on expenditures over, say, a grand. Second, I want to be on the board of directors."
"The veto's no problem. But we don't have a board of directors."
Kent opened his briefcase and removed a ledger. Scribbled with a silver pen. "You do now." He tore off the check and handed it to Washington with a smile. "I made my money because I educated myself on every aspect of the business, and then went and fought for what I wanted. And I don't see why this should be any different. Because you're right. This isn't an underprivileged neighborhood, is it?"
Washington stared at the check. A five, followed by five zeroes. Jesus wept. Five zeroes. Half a million dollars. More money than he'd make in fifteen years at the library. Something bloomed in Washington's chest. "No sir." All these years, all the evil he'd seen, and people still could manage to surprise him with the good. "It's not."
They chatted for a few more minutes, details for the party on Friday night, logistics. The check lay on the table right beside the sheet with his prison record. After a few minutes, Kent looked at his watch, and Washington walked them to the door.
"Mr. Matthews," the alderman said, "so you know, this wasn't personal. I wasn't looking for that information, and it, well, it took me by surprise when I found it." Owens hesitated. "I'm very glad of what you're doing. No hard feelings, I hope?"
Washington supposed maybe he should be angry with the man, but couldn't find it in himself. "No hard feelings." Some debts weren't paid in money, and some were never truly paid at all. The boy with the cauliflower ear would walk with him for the rest of his life. And when he died, he expected to find the boy waiting.
Couldn't blame him, either.
He stood at the door and watched the men walk to a Lincoln Towncar, handmade Italian dress shoes crunching broken glass on the sidewalk. After they pulled away, he walked back to his den, dropped in his tired chair. Feeling worn but good. The war he fought had no end, and he knew he was on the losing side. He'd known that going in, but it was never easy to fight when victory was impossible.
But at least every now and then he won a battle.
CHAPTER 16
Derailed
" White guys?" Cruz leaned forward, stopped twirling her pen.
"Yeah," Palmer said. He looked ragged, dark pits blooming under restless eyes. "That's what Billy said."
"He's sure?"
Palmer shrugged. "He's eight, not color blind."
White guys. Another piece that didn't fit. Something was wrong here, and it had her stomach knotted. First, Michael Palmer's assertion of a conspiracy and his promise to deliver evidence, only to end up murdered less than a week later. Then the warning from Donlan. And after that, she'd arrived at work to hear about the attack at Michael Palmer's house the previous night, the 911 call, and report of gunfire.
Hence her stomach. "Where's Billy now?"
"In the breakroom. I wanted to spare him as much of," Palmer waved his hands in a gesture that took in the whole station, "this as I could. It's been a rough couple of days."
"Yeah, I bet." Cruz leaned back. "These white guys. Any idea who they are?"
He shook his head. "Not a clue. I only saw the gangbangers. The one I'd been calling Soul Patch, that you say is named Playboy." He nodded to the stack of photos on her desk, shots of known Gangster Disciples members and associates. Playboy glowered a Fuck You from the top of the pile. "What's with these guys' names?"
"Monikers. Like nicknames. Usually they pick ones that make them sound tough. We had a guy in here last year called himself Anthrax." She cocked her head. "I thought you Army guys had them, too."
"Only in Vietnam movies."
"You recognize anybody else?"
"No. I didn't get a good look at the other two last night, and the short one, the wrestler, he's not here."
The hit on Playboy was something, at least. Playboy, real name Louis Freeman, was a good lead – Gangster Disciples number two, a couple of priors for assault and weapons charges, suspicion of involvement in a stack of shootings. She'd spoken to him before, and he was smarter than a lot of his boys, which meant he might have had the initiative to pull something like this.
Only problem was, he wasn't white.
When the pieces didn't fit, you had two choices. Look for a new one that did, or push hard on the ones you had. "You still have no idea what they want with you?"
"Like I told you. They were after Billy."
"Uh-huh." She squinted. Paused. "It's just that I don't understand how all this fits together. I mean, your brother being killed by gangbangers, that would make sense. But if it was white guys, then why were the bangers after you?
And why would they come after his kid?" Her gun was weighing down the side of her slacks, and she shifted. Clicked the pen. "See what I'm getting at?"
Palmer kept his hands in his lap, a wary expression on his face. "Not really, no."
"There has to be something else, some connection." Click-click. "I understand protecting your brother's memory, but if Michael was into something shady, I need to know about it."
"No way." He shook his head. "Not my brother."
She switched tacks. "Jackie says hi."
"Who?"
"Jackie." Click-click. "Your girlfriend from the other night? She confirms you were with her all night and yesterday morning. But when I mentioned to her that you'd left the Army, she seemed surprised to hear it."
He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah."
"Mind if I ask the circumstances of your departure?"
"Actually, yeah, I do."
She cocked her head. "Was that some sort of a sore point between you and your brother? Did he disapprove?" Following it out of habit, digging.
"Why are you going after me, lady?" He stared at her. "You know I didn't do it. Are you trying to prove something to yourself?"
She started to snap at him. Then wondered if he was right. "I'm just being thorough."
"What you're doing is hassling me, when you should be out arresting Soul Patch. I mean Playboy. Whatever his fucking name is."
Cruz leaned back. "I'm looking into every angle."
"Including him?"
"Yes." She gave him a steady gaze, waited for him to ease up. When he did, she reminded herself to do the same. Yes, something strange was going on, and no, she didn't have any idea what it was. But she didn't believe he was involved. "I've spoken to some of my informants already. And I'll visit the bangers this afternoon, both Gangster Disciples and some of the other sets."
"You can do that?" He seemed surprised.
"Talk to bangers? Of course. I'm police."
"But, I mean – they tell you things?"
"They rarely give up their crew. But it's a small world. And they're cagey, but not rocket scientists." She leaned forward. "Now, what did these white guys look like?"
He took a deep breath, then rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while he told her. She scribbled notes. Not much to go on – one thin and plain-looking with dark hair going gray, the other a scary-looking Italian, muscular and balding.
"Should Billy talk to a sketch artist or something?
Cruz smiled. "That's cop show stuff. People don't really see each other – how big was the nose, how high was the forehead. Sketches end up looking like a composite of everybody in the room. And that's when it's an adult doing it. With a kid…"
He pursed his lips. "So how are you going to track these guys down?"
"From a description? No names, no license plate, no fingerprints?" She laughed. "I'm not."
"But-"
"The point of this is that if we can get suspects, Billy will be able to identify them. He can put them at the scene where your brother died. But finding them? Nine million people in the Chicago area, a lot of them white."
"That the best you can do?"
She hit him with the stare again.
"I'm sorry. I'm just-" He slumped back, brushed bangs from his eyes. "I don't understand this." There was a weird, appealing combination of strength and vulnerability in his pose, part soldier, part schoolboy, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to have a drink with him. Maybe one of those sexy River North lounges, both of them on a second martini. It was an odd thought, out of left field, and it annoyed her, so she pushed it aside and spun it into concern. "I'm sorry about your brother. He seemed like a good man."
He nodded, then a darker expression came across his face. "Do I have to…" He stopped. "Do you need me to-"
"No." She spoke softly. "We've identified him from dental records. You can see him if you want to. But I wouldn't recommend it."
"Should I be planning something? You know, for his… body?"
"He's with the medical examiner now," she said, choosing her words carefully. "They're trying to see what we can learn about how he died. In a couple of days, they'll release him to the funeral home of your choosing. You should start thinking about what kind of service to have."
"How can I?"
"I know it's a lot to deal with, but the funeral director will help-"
"No, I mean, how can I have a service? How do I know a group of gangbangers won't show up for Billy?"
Cruz opened her mouth, closed it. After a moment, she said, "I'll be there."
He nodded, eyes panning the room, falling across the cramped desk she shared with another officer, the good-enough-for-government fluorescent lighting, the ancient computer. He said, "I need your help. We need some sort of police protection."
"Police protection?"
"For Billy."
She winced. One of those moments when the realities of the job were disappointing. On television, they'd have a safe house guarded by snipers, a fifty-inch television on the wall and ice cream in the fridge. "I can ask patrol cars to spin down the block more often. The Crenwood rotation is pretty heavy, so you'd see a lot of them. Once or twice an hour, maybe more."
"Once an hour?"
She raised her shoulders, held her hands in front of her. "There's not much else I can do. You're welcome to stay here until this is settled."
"Here."
"Yes."
"In the police station."
She shrugged.
"Unbelievable." He shook his head. "He's eight. You know that? Eight."
"I'm sorry."
He stood up. "If you're not going to protect Billy, then I will."
"Mr. Palmer." She stood, too, put steel in her voice. "Don't do anything stupid. Leave the criminals to us."
"You think I'm out to solve a crime, lady?" He looked ragged and tired, but his eyes blazed. "I'm trying to protect my family. That's all I care about."
"Jason." She said it softly, hoping to defuse this, to keep him compliant. She could stuff him in a holding cell, but didn't want to. "I care about that, too."
His hands squeezed into fists, and his lips went white. He stared at her for a long moment. "Terrific," he said.
Then he turned on his heel and stormed away, back straight and shoulders clenched. She thought about calling after him, telling him to stay. Ordering it. Instead, she flopped down in her chair. The star on her belt felt heavy.
"You know what I blame?" Tom Galway rocked his chair back on two legs. Between the neat suit and the salt-and-pepper hair, her partner looked more like an orthodontist than a Gang Intel Sergeant. "CSI."
"Huh?" Cruz looked up from her laptop.
"All these cop shows with elaborate plots. You know, the vic is killed with a potato masher, fashion models with badges talk to twelve people, shine that mysterious blue light all over, it turns out it was the guy's scoutmaster he hadn't seen in ten years."
She laughed. "So you don't buy it?" Cruz had filled him in on all the weird vibes from the case. "You were there, you heard what Michael Palmer had to say."
He snorted. "Yeah, and I liked him, too. More polite than most crazies."
"All that stuff about the gangs being part of a larger problem, his claim there was evidence. You think he was making that up?"
"No, he was one hundred percent correct. The gangs are part of a larger problem. It's called being dead-ass broke. Evidence of that ain't hard to see." Galway shrugged. "Look, your victim spoke against the gangs. He lived in a gang neighborhood, and died in a bar in gang territory. A Gangster Disciple went after his brother and his son. And not just any Disciple, but Playboy, a shithead we know has dropped bodies. Why make this complicated?"
He had a point. But still. "What about the kid's description?"
"A day late and a dollar short. What is he, eight? He's scared out of his mind, probably remembering something from TV. And you can't put an eight-year-old on the stand. Public def
ender would tear you a new orifice. Besides," Galway looked around, then leaned forward. "I was talking to the lieutenant earlier."
She set down her pen, prepared herself.
"Palmer was an activist," Galway continued. "The press hasn't picked up the story yet, but they will. The chief, the superintendent, they're getting crazy pressure. Hell, Alderman Owens called to say he wants a gang-banger in cuffs on the evening news."
"Alderman Owens is involved?" This case just got better and better.
Galway nodded. "He won on a promise to fight gang violence. This doesn't make him look good." He gave her a look that wasn't hard to read. It said, Danger. It said, Cover your ass. She flashed back to breakfast with Donlan, his none-too-subtle warning. Telling her that this was a heater, not to mess it up on some half-ass theory. Telling her she'd regret it if she did.
She felt a vein pulse in her forehead. "So what you're saying is we're in the middle of a shitstorm."
"What do you mean, 'we,' white girl? It's your case." Galway winked as he stood up. He took his vest from the back of the chair and put it on. "Look, jokes aside, can I give you some advice, partner-to-partner? The powers that be want to clear this quick. This is a chance to earn their gratitude. And Playboy would look awfully good in handcuffs. Maybe," he said, tightening the straps on his Kevlar, "good enough to get you off database duty."
As he walked out, she fought an urge to sweep the stack of folders off her desk. Instead, she leaned back, stared at the ceiling tiles. Picked up a pen and clicked it open, closed, openclosed. When had things gotten so complicated? Criminals were usually stupid, generally arrogant, often drunk or high. They loaded their weapons barehanded, leaving casings with fingerprints. They smoked two seams of dust and shotgunned a liquor store owner to get money for a third. They murdered each other for spray painting on the wrong wall.
What they didn't do was operate in elaborate plots.
Still, something was going on. Michael Palmer killed after talking to her about a gang. Apparently, killed by white guys, even though black gangbangers had later gone after his kid. And add to that the warnings from Donlan and Galway, the political pressure.
