by Wendy Byrne
“Asking the Feds isn’t going to get you anywhere. They’ll never admit to what they’re up to. By the time you leave the room, they’ll have you convinced Martians are involved somehow.” He didn’t want her stirring up too much trouble with Malone. At least not yet. Not until he could weasel a little more information out of him.
“Martians? They’d have to talk pretty long and fast to get me to believe that one.” For the first time in a couple of days, she seemed to relax as she stuffed the handkerchief back into her pocket. “Russians maybe, but there’s no way I’d fall for Martians.” She giggled. “Really, Landry who talks about Martians anymore? Didn’t that discussion end sometime in the sixties?”
“Maybe I’m spending too much time with my grandmother.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
* * *
Isabella sucked in a deep breath, relishing the familiar minty smell and the soft chest chair texture beneath her fingertips. For once she didn’t resist, instead wallowing in the peace and comfort surrounding her.
But as her eyes popped open, realization struck. Somehow she’d become nestled into the crook of Landry’s arm. How had that happened? She’d like to blame him for violating their ‘safety zone,’ but evidence told a different story.
That was the problem. She was her own worst enemy. Getting used to Landry hanging around ratcheted up her vulnerability and, worse yet, contributed to her dependence.
As carefully as possible she disengaged and slid out of bed. Next, she tiptoed into the bathroom, showered and dressed in record time. She needed space.
Besides, after their discussion last night, she had a lot of things she wanted to investigate. She’d love to pay a visit to Malone and shake the truth out of him, even though that effort would be futile.
He or one of his pea-brained friends had to have planted the gun at her place. There was no other explanation. She’d never believe anyone from CPD would set her up. Sure there were a few bad apples, but not nearly as many as the media would have people believe.
She needed to start somewhere and figured she could only work with what she knew. Finding Lou or Sergio was Plan A, even though right now that seemed a bit like finding a needle in a haystack. But having a friend in the medical examiner’s office didn’t hurt. Working that angle until something better came along would at least get her the time of death and other specifics.
As quietly as possible, she left the apartment and walked down the front steps. It was a weekday morning and people were out and about either jogging or bustling off to work or school. After spending some time in the area, she recognized some of the faces: the men in their suits rushing to the El, or the students hustling off to nearby DePaul University, or the mothers with their children in tow, off to yoga class or the daycare center before work.
She even recognized the bums on the street corner. They tended to be territorial about their turf, so that wasn’t a big surprise. Even though most people tried to ignore street people through fear or guilt or something else less tangible, she knew that they could be a wealth of information. They were almost like a tornado siren before the big one hit; they had the pulse of the neighborhood in their blood.
They knew the cops, both the ones that left them alone and the ones that hassled them. They knew the kids, both good and bad. They could read the faces of the people and know instinctively which ones would cough up some change and which ones would walk by.
That’s when it hit her. She had an untapped resource that might potentially produce some information.
Now when she got into her car, she not only had a Plan B to work with, she also had a Plan C.
She’d start out with Leo. Most days he hung around the corner from her house. Frequently, she’d drop him a couple bucks, or hand him a fresh cup of coffee or a sandwich if she’d stopped to get one for herself. At night, in the winter, he’d make the trek into the Loop and stay on Lower Wacker Drive where many of the homeless congregated. Every once in a while the cops would make an effort to roust them, but they always came back. In the end, it was a vicious cycle that nobody would win. There’d always be homeless people and there’d always be those who wanted them to somehow become invisible.
She wasn’t sure where Leo stayed at night during the summer. Her guess would be he stayed in the neighborhood alleys and parking lots, or maybe one of the parks since both Oz and Lincoln Parks were close by.
It took her about fifteen minutes to travel the couple miles from Landry’s neighborhood to hers due to the morning congestion. She stopped at Starbucks and grabbed two coffees before she headed to Leo’s usual spot.
The late October wind had picked up swirling the dirt and leaves around the sidewalk. She felt the beginnings of the winter chill in the air and wished she’d taken some gloves from her apartment.
Leo wasn’t at his usual corner. But he couldn’t be far. If nothing else was predictable in her life, Leo was.
Finally, she spotted him. He had a squeegee and a bottle of watered-down Windex and was cleaning off the front windshields of passing cars. Most people hated when the homeless did that. No doubt they felt an invasion of privacy or guilt eating at their conscience. Some made sure their doors were locked. Others rolled up their windows in silent protest. Frankly, she didn’t see how Leo could make any money doing that considering the unpredictable nature of people’s reactions, unless maybe they paid him to move on.
After the light changed to green, he shuffled back toward the sidewalk.
“Hey, Leo.” She motioned with coffee in hand.
He smiled and headed her way. She never could guess his age, but suspected he was much younger than he appeared. Life on the streets played out in his appearance as well as in the lack of agility with which he moved.
“Thanks, Detective Sanchez.” He took a good long sip before he spoke again. The simple pleasure that coffee brought him broke onto his face. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” He held the cup in gloves with the fingers cut off. As usual, he’d concocted a rag-tag mix of Salvation Army clothing store finds to keep him warm.
She didn’t know his story but assumed that one day he might tell her. Judging by the fact that he constantly smelled of liquor, she suspected alcoholism was a big part of why he was in this situation.
“Been busy. You know what they say, a cop’s work is never done.”
“I thought they say that about mothers.”
She smiled and considered the unlikely comparison. “Mothers, cops, same thing.”
He nodded. “True enough.” He took another long sip, which made her glad she’d bought the extra-large size. “You need something, Detective?”
“Actually, I was hoping you might have seen something.” She drew in a deep breath. “A man was killed in my apartment the other day.”
“I heard something about that.” His gaze shifted first one way then the other before settling back to her.
“Cops talk to you?”
“Oh, heck no. They think we’re nothing but a bunch of drunks.” He laughed so hard at his joke he started to cough. “I guess they’re right about that.”
“I know you don’t usually hang around past seven or so at night, but I was wondering if you saw anything unusual around my place the last couple of days.”
He rubbed his stubbly face. “Now that you mention it, I saw a truck. At first I thought you were moving out.” He winked. “But I knew you wouldn’t do that without letting me know.”
“Absolutely.” Shaky, she took a sip of coffee to help settle her nerves. “Could you tell what they were moving?”
“Looked like household stuff, furniture, that kind of thing.”
“What day was that?”
“Not sure. I lose track of days on the streets.” He shrugged.
“Sure. I get that. Before the moving truck, did you see anything else? Any visitors?” At this point, she hadn’t learned anything she didn’t already know. Lou and Cynthia moved out while she was at work.
“Not that co
p guy you were hanging with. I haven’t seen him for a while.” He gave her a smile. “If you two broke up, it might be time to make my move. I might not be as good-looking as him, but I bet he can’t dance like me.”
She laughed. “You’re probably right about that.”
“But I did see a couple of other guys. One looked like a punk, the other looked like a cop.”
“Was the cop wearing a uniform?”
Leo shook his head. “Nope. But he drove what looked like an unmarked cop car and had on a suit. He sure did smell like a cop, even from a block away.”
“Did he ring the bell or just look around?” She needed some kind of thread to pull this together.
“Nope. He went inside. I think he talked to the renter you had on the first floor. You know, the one with the moving truck.”
A weird slither worked its way down her back. “What did the cop look like? Anybody on CPD that you know?”
“This guy wasn’t CPD.” He shook his head. “The guy was about fifty, with graying hair at the temples.”
What was Malone doing talking to Lou a couple of days before her father ended up dead in her apartment?
Chapter Seven
“You okay, Ms. Detective?” Leo tugged at the sleeve of her coat.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” she mumbled, not really sure about anything or anybody right now. It seemed like the more she dug, the more complicated things got.
“Uhm…Sorry…Leo. I was preoccupied.” She drew in a breath and tamped back the revulsion stewing inside. The Feds had somehow snared her family in a web of deception and lies and there was nothing she could do about it. For now.
“Anything else you need?”
Even though this revelation had shaken her, she should have seen it coming. Feds never did anything halfway. They were in it to win it, so to speak. But this time they’d messed with the wrong woman.
“Uhm…yeah.…” She finally gained enough composure to look him in the eye. “Do…you…” She cleared her throat to regain focus. “Do you know anybody who hangs in the Little Village area?” Since it was the last place Lou and Cynthia lived before her place, she figured she should start there.
“I hang in Old Town because you people are rich. Heck, the people who live in Little Village are nearly as poor as we are. Can’t make much money when nobody’s got any pocket change.”
“Guess you’re right about that.”
Leo smiled but kept his lips closed, hiding the scarcity of teeth. “But there’s somebody I know in West Loop. It’s not too far away. Annie might know something. She’s a busybody.”
“Does she hang out on Lower Wacker at night?”
“Most times. I think she likes being the only female down there.”
Isabella handed him a twenty. “How about if I pick you up tonight and give you a ride? Maybe Annie can help.” Somehow finding Lou seemed to be the key to unlocking this whole mystery. Maybe Annie might give Isabella an idea of where he might be hiding.
“Sure. I’ll be here till around seven.” He pulled up the sleeve on his coat to reveal a couple of different watches attached to his forearm.
She didn’t dare ask how or where he’d gotten them. Some questions were better off left unasked. “Don’t drink up that twenty before I get here. I’ll give you another twenty tonight.”
“Sounds good.” He smiled. “For that kind of change, I can hold off drinking until after you leave.” He gave her a salute and moved toward the row of cars waiting for the light to change.
* * *
Seconds after Isabella left the apartment, Landry called Malone. “She just left.” Landry fixed himself coffee and wished he didn’t feel like pond scum.
“Where’s she headed?”
“Not sure. You have somebody on standby?” The only way Landry could make peace about being dishonest with her was to think of her safety. That was only if he could muster enough trust in Malone to get to that point.
“They’ll pick her up as soon as she walks out your door.” Malone took a sip of coffee. “Did she tell you anything last night?”
“Listen, Malone, this is a two-way street. You want me to keep an eye on her, you’ve gotta give me some info, too.” He tried to tamp down the feelings of betrayal, but they were getting more and more difficult to navigate through. “And don’t give me any excuses. You know she’s clean. What is it you’re after?”
“I can’t elaborate. It might compromise the investigation.” He sighed. “I would if I could, but I can’t.” His voice softened.
Landry flexed his jaw as he struggled to read between the lines of what Malone did tell him, which was pretty much diddly. “Isabella does her own thing. I can’t keep her here indefinitely.”
“I understand. I’m working on this end to ensure she’s kept out of her place for as long as possible to make things easier for you.”
“I’d like to say thanks, but this whole thing makes me feel like a creep. She should know you’re having me keep an eye on her.” Landry had second, third and fourth thoughts about agreeing to the deal. This conversation with Malone wasn’t making him feel any better.
“Okay, I’ll give you one thing: We did spring Samuels out of Stateville. I can’t tell you why. But you have to know we believed that was Sanchez visiting him at prison. I’m still not convinced it wasn’t.”
* * *
Isabella called Scott at the ME’s office once she got back to her car. He answered on the second ring.
“Scott, just who I was looking for. It’s Isabella Sanchez.” While the ME pretty much had no use for her, or any cop for that matter, his assistant, Scott, had been helpful on more than one occasion. “Is the autopsy finished for Tyrone Samuels?”
“Let me check. I believe Dr. Long just finished the report.” She heard the shuffling of papers. “I’m not even sure if he talked to the lieutenant or that Fed guy yet.”
Inside, she did a slow burn even though she knew what Scott said was following protocol. Still, if Malone was behind this whole frame job on her, it didn’t seem kosher he was privy to information firsthand.
Scott continued. “The time of death was between 10 and ten 10:30 p.m. He was shot from about fifteen feet away. Based on the downward trajectory, shooter was standing, victim was kneeling or sitting. No signs of struggle. He must have been caught by surprise.” He hesitated for a second. “Ah…The report states Mr. Samuels was suffering from advanced-stage liver cancer. He probably only had a few months, maybe weeks, to live.”
Something foreign and very scary clogged her throat as she wiped away an errant tear. Where had that come from? The man was dead. And dead was dead no matter the circumstances.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder why, knowing he was dying, he chose her apartment. What did he want to tell her?
* * *
Since she was in the neighborhood, she stopped by an Italian beef place and picked up a sandwich for her and Landry. With the traffic gods on her side, and utilizing side streets, it didn’t take long to make it back to the apartment. The sandwiches were still toasty warm by the time she walked through the front door.
It looked like Landry had just finished his shower and was in the middle of shaving when he peeked out the bathroom door. “Smells great. I’ll be done in a second.”
She pulled plates from the cupboards and a bottle of water for each of them from the fridge and set everything on the table. After unwrapping the sandwiches and fries, she put them on the plates.
Landry joined her seconds later. His hair glistened from the shower and he had on his jeans and an undershirt. He gave her a light kiss on the cheek and sat down. “You’re an angel. Normally I nuke a frozen dinner before heading out.”
“It’s the closest you’ll ever see me get to cooking.”
He shrugged. “Works for me.” After taking a sip of water, he looked at her. “What you been doing all morning?”
“My father was dying of cancer.” Her breath hitched. Somehow over the last couple of days she�
�d become an emotional pansy.
“How did you find out?”
“Scott at the ME’s office.” She took a sip of water, ignored the squeezing sensation inside her chest and fought hard not to reach into her pocket to touch the handkerchief. “Do you think they would have let him out early because of it? But why the elaborate cover-up? And what the hell was he doing at my house?” She wanted him to believe her father’s untimely visit had been an invasion of her space rather than anything remotely sentimental. Except for that burning sensation inside her chest, she might actually believe it herself.
He reached across the table to touch her fingers but she pulled them away. She didn’t want any twisted sense of compassion from him or anybody else. Her father was dead. Big deal. She barely remembered the man. If not for the tattoo she might not even have recognized him.
“They wouldn’t have released him because of his illness, but it might have had a role in any decision they made.” He drew in a breath and looked her in the eyes. “Maybe your father wanted to see you to make amends for the past, especially if he was dying.”
“He said all he had to say when he became a murderer.” With a whole lot of effort she willed away the feelings and sensations of long ago. Little kids loved their parents no matter what kind of idiots they were. Any sentimentality she felt was based on juvenile fantasy.
“What did your grandfather tell you about your dad?”
She rubbed her forehead as she fought against memories.
“After my mom died, my biggest fear was losing my grandfather as well. There seemed to be some bad blood between my dad and my grandfather.” She squeezed her eyes to ward off tears. “The only thing my dad ever gave me was a teddy bear for my sixth birthday. He probably stole it.” Forcing a cynical laugh, she continued. “I didn’t know it at the time, but he went to prison shortly after that.”
For weeks she carried that teddy bear, or Teddy-B as she called him, with her wherever she went. Then it disappeared and she’d cried for days. She didn’t put two and two together until years later when she recognized her grandfather wanted to erase all memories of her father.
