by T. E. Woods
“But this is family time,” she protested.
“Nonsense. The two fathers—biologic and cleric—will have had ample time to discuss business before dinner. You’ve heard the tale. About how the two of them seem to have made each other.”
“Yes. Moran gave your father’s company much of the diocesan construction business when your father was starting out.”
“Leslie’s interpretation of the past is a bit off. Prairie Construction was already the largest builder in the area by the time she was born. And it wasn’t much of the church’s business Moran steered my father’s way. It was all. And as Moran climbed the ecclesiastical ladder, he continued to give Prairie all the business of whatever it was they were building. That’s how Father got his toehold in Chicago and D.C. By the time Leslie was pledging her sorority, Moran was in New York and Father was building at both St. John’s University and Fordham.”
“A lengthy relationship between the two of them.”
“Indeed,” Barney offered. “Seemed like Father Moran was always around. Christmas, Thanksgiving. Even weekend barbecues at the lake house. It’s Leslie’s house now, but the three of us were raised there.”
“Leslie told me you have an older sister. Cecilia?”
“That’s right. I suppose you know she lives in Ireland.” He paused for a moment. “She was Mother’s favorite.”
“And Leslie tells me you were your father’s favorite.” Sydney smiled. “Doesn’t every child think the other sibling has the inside track with one parent or another?”
“Perhaps.” He turned toward the door and Sydney rose to walk him out. “There was, however, no question that Cecilia was Moran’s favorite. I was only nine when she left for boarding school, but I can remember how the two of them would sit for hours discussing any manner of godly things. I think Mother still holds it against him.”
“Holds what against whom?” Sydney asked as they crossed the dining room.
“Cecilia’s decision to take her vows,” he explained. “In Ireland of all places.”
“Her vows? Cecilia’s a nun?”
“You didn’t know? I assumed Leslie told you.”
“She told me she went to boarding school in Ireland. Said she was just a child when Cecilia left. And that Cecilia loved Ireland so much she decided to build her life there.”
“That’s true.” Barney stepped through Hush Money’s heavy glass doors into the blazing July sunshine. “A life as a Dominican Contemplative. At St. Catherine of Siena monastery in Drogheda. Talks to no one outside the order. Communicates with my mother, but that just by thrice-a-year letter.”
“I had no idea.”
“Yes. My faraway sister lives a life of prayer and silence.”
Chapter 27
“God, I’m going to miss these old buildings.” Rick closed his car door and stepped to the sidewalk. “A city’s gotta grow, I get it. New replaces old. I just wish there was a way not to erase the history. Know what I mean?”
“Can we maybe save the melancholy for another time? You ask me, this one should have been demolished years ago.” Horst strode toward the warehouse. “Soon as we crack this case I’ll buy you a beer and listen all afternoon while you mope about the good old days. How’s that?”
“Cranky today, are we?”
Horst’s eyes held none of his usual good nature. “Happens every time I’m set up to take a fall.” He nodded toward the brick building. “Around back. That’s where Billy Tremble built himself a little hiding space off the streets.”
The two of them walked around the perimeter of the vacant structure. Horst hauled out the ladder hidden in the bushes and leaned it against the iron porch suspended twelve feet above the ground. “You up for this?”
Rick shifted his weight and felt the bandages tight across his chest. “Won’t know until I try. You go on up first.”
“That way, you won’t smash me if you fall. That the plan?”
“Something like that.”
Horst climbed the ladder and disappeared behind a screen of dense ivy. Rick walked to his left and looked up at the ledge.
“Perfect cover,” he called out. “All I see is leaves.” Then he returned to the ladder and began his climb. The first three steps were fine. He felt a spasm of pain as he climbed the fourth rung and had to stop to catch his breath on rung six.
“You okay?” Horst called down.
“Surveillance,” Rick lied. “Checking things out.” He breathed deeply against the pain in his gut, then finished his climb.
“It’s bigger than I would have guessed,” he said once he was over the railing.
“They tell me Billy had visitors up here from time to time,” Horst said. “Great spot for a homeless guy, right? High enough so no one’s gonna see you. All leafed-in for privacy.”
“And protection.” Rick looked straight down. “Parking lot’s seen better days.”
“Whole place has,” Horst commented. “Anything jump out at you as peculiar?”
Rick surveyed the crumbling brick walls. He ran his hand over the flaking paint of the double door at the rear of the platform. Then he returned his assessment to the ground beneath them. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”
Horst’s appreciative slap to Rick’s shoulder was greeted with a wince.
“Sorry, Rick. Didn’t mean to hurt ya there.”
“Just a little tender.” He nodded toward the abandoned parking lot. “That fence still glistens in the sun. Look there…at the posts. They’re sunk into the ground and cemented.”
“I noticed the same thing myself. And see all that grass growing up between those cracks in the asphalt? Now look again at the base of the posts. Not a single blade.”
“This fence is new.” Rick turned again toward the building. “Could be construction fencing. This whole neighborhood’s being gentrified. Maybe some developer is getting ready to rehab the building. Or tear it down. First step would be to secure the area.”
“Maybe,” Horst said. “But when’s the last time you saw a construction site bounded by permanent fencing? Hell’s bells, even at the hospital, where they’re building all the time, they use that temporary chain-link. The kind that’s secured by sandbags at the base.” Horst nodded toward the fence below. “That fence was meant to stay right where it is.”
Rick agreed that it was odd.
“Now for the crux of my theory.”
Rick huffed out a laugh. “The crux of your theory? What? You’re Sherlock Holmes now?”
Horst’s glare was brief but powerful. “Be quiet and listen.”
“To what?”
Horst leaned back against the brick wall. “Just shut up and observe.”
For several minutes Rick heard nothing but birds and rustling leaves. He wondered what it was Horst was expecting on a quiet Sunday morning in July. He bided his time checking out the view. The quiet street. The backs of dilapidated three-flats bearing the signs of undergraduate inhabitants. He leaned over and caught a peekaboo view of the capitol dome off to his right. Up ahead he saw four bicyclists heading in their direction. He shook his head at the neon colors of their spandex riding outfits.
And then he heard it.
“…corner office. I mean, what the hell!”
“Way of the world, man. What can I tell you? Blood is thicker than…”
Rick spun around. “Did you hear that? Those bikers. Did you hear that conversation?”
“Loud and clear.” Horst smiled. “Comes and goes. But when it’s in that sweet spot, it’s like you’re standing right next to whoever’s talking. You should hear a car drive by with their windows down. You’ll hear the radio sure as if you were sitting in the front seat.”
Rick turned back to look down at the street. He wished it was a weekday. Blair Street would have been busier. He could have experienced
the phenomenon a dozen times. At that moment, as if in answer to his frustration, the universe sent a jogger headed toward him. A woman. Long blond ponytail bouncing with each step. He kept his eyes riveted on her as she approached.
In a moment, Rick could hear her heavy breathing. The cadence of her inhale. The huff of her exhale. She was at least thirty feet away and he heard it clear as a bell. A few strides more and the woman, still in his sight, ran on in silence.
“How in the world?” Rick whispered.
Horst waved a hand to indicate the area. “It bows out. The walls. The vines. Like one of them sound shells in a concert park. I checked it out from the ground.”
Rick nodded. “And how much money did you say Billy was flashing around?”
“Lots. According to the folks on the street, he was handing out hundred-dollar bills like they were candy bars. Telling everyone not to worry about taking it. That there was more where it came from. One guy said Billy told him there was an endless supply.”
“No wonder he didn’t want anyone taking over this spot. This is where he got the money.”
“That’s the way I see it.” Horst nodded.
“You check the ground-level doors?”
“I did.” Horst went back to the paint-flecked double door at the rear of the porch. He leaned his entire weight against it. “Every door is just like this one. Locked tighter than a miser’s purse.”
Rick tried his own attempt to budge the door, only to be met with a burning stab deep within his belly warning him not to try again.
“Windows?”
“Lower-level ones are boarded over,” Horst answered.
Rick was silent for a moment. “We need to find out who owns these buildings.”
“Used to be Hartel Refrigeration.” Horst looked him square in the eye. “But that was before.”
“Before what?”
Horst scanned the building again, as though looking for something he lost.
“What’s going on, Horst?”
“I’ve been here before.”
“Before those two guys brought you here?”
Horst was quiet for a moment. “You ask any cop who’s been on the force more than twenty years, they’ll tell you the same thing. This building’s no good.”
“What? It’s haunted?”
“Cursed is more like it.” Horst faced Rick and the look in his eyes made Rick straighten his spine. “This is where Joe Richardson died.” Horst pointed to a wide door near the building’s center wall. “Eighteen years ago. I found him in there. Blood everywhere. Now this.”
“Bad things can happen in empty buildings,” Rick offered. “We’ll find out what’s going on here.”
“Maybe. This place has a way of slipping things by.”
Rick tried to imagine the pain Horst felt revisiting the site where he lost his partner. He came up with nothing but gratitude that he’d never experienced such a loss.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Horst finally asked.
“You did hear I was shot, right? Kind of puts a crimp in your social life. Why?”
“Guy at the motel told me Billy was religious about paying his way. Always in cash. Always on Tuesday morning. Gordy, one of Billy’s friends from the streets, said that when Billy laid a C-note on him, again, on a Tuesday, he tried to beg Billy off. Said it was too much. According to him, Billy told Gordy not to worry. Said he just got paid. Another payday was coming in a week. If something’s going down, it happens on a Monday.”
Rick took another long look at the building. Then he turned back to Horst.
“I’ll bring the camera and sandwiches. You take care of the beer.”
Chapter 28
“You’re shittin’ me.” Frank Vistole brought a hand to his lips. “You gotta excuse my French. This is about the last thing I was expectin’ to hear out of your mouth.”
“Perhaps I should have taken more time warming up to the topic, Mr. Vistole.” Geneva Talbot set her leather briefcase on the floor and positioned her chair so that she’d be within Vistole’s range of vision. “This is a lot to take in, I grant you.”
“I thought you were gettin’ ready to tell me the jig was up. No more extensions on the hospital bed. Off to the pokey for this guy here. But no shit? I’m getting out of here? Really out?”
“There’s some discharge paperwork here at the hospital. And I’ll have to run back over to the district attorney’s office for a bit.” Geneva raised her wrist to check a watch that Frank guessed must have set her back a couple of grand, at least. “It’s a bit past noon now. If all goes well, we should be able to have you out of here by four o’clock. That is, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“And no jail?”
“And no jail. In fact, if you’ll give me one moment…” Vistole kept his eyes on the lawyer as she stood and walked out of the room. He liked the way her ass moved under that black skirt. He knew women like that. Looking all prim and proper, but underneath, he knew the prissy girls wanted it just as much as the sluts down on Main.
Maybe even more, he thought. Lot of trapped up steam in them pipes.
He hadn’t believed his luck when the woman walked into his hospital room earlier that morning, announcing she was there to represent him.
“I already got a lawyer,” he’d told her. He thought of that pimple-faced kid. What had he said his name was? Vistole decided it didn’t matter. The public defender had somehow gotten him the all clear to stay in the hospital over the weekend, and that was enough to keep him loyal.
The woman in the black suit had shaken her head at his announcement. She’d given him one of those don’t-fuck-with-me stares that always turned him on, and then she told him his employer had sent her.
My employer! Frank had nearly wet his pants over that one. I’m making it. No way Chicago would invest in this kind of legal talent unless they saw a future with me.
Then she’d left, assuring him she’d take care of things and telling him not to say a word to anyone who wasn’t a medical professional. And even then, he was to only answer questions related to his health care. And now she was back, telling him this whole stinking mess had gone away. He was a free man.
High-priced lawyers. Gotta love ’em. Especially if it’s Chicago that’s pickin’ up the tab.
Geneva Talbot reentered the room, this time with a uniformed cop. Vistole leaned farther back into his bed, expecting the worst.
“Hey!” he said. “What gives now?”
“Officer, you’ve made your phone call.” Geneva’s voice was smooth as honey on a hot day. “If you’d be so kind as to unshackle Mr. Vistole, I’m sure we’d all appreciate it.”
The cop turned toward Vistole with a disgusted look.
“What?” Vistole asked. “You smell somethin’ bad? Come a little closer, pig. Let me see if I can give you a little something extra.”
“Mr. Vistole,” Geneva snapped. “The officer is merely doing his job. It does no one any benefit to antagonize the good man.”
Frank knew she’d take whatever he did right back to Chicago. “You heard the lady,” he said to the officer. “Unshackle me, my good man.”
The officer pulled his key from his belt and released Vistole’s wrist and ankle cuff. Then he left the room, looking for all the world like a man who had plenty he wanted to say, but somehow knew it was in his best interest to swallow his words.
Frank waited until the cop left the room. He rubbed his wrist and stretched out long and slow on the bed. “Now what?”
“Do you think you’re up to being discharged?” Geneva asked.
“Baby, I was ready days ago. Where you taking me? Back to Beloit? Or does the man want me down in Shy Town?”
Geneva’s face was as expressionless as a snowball. “Mr. Vistole, I’ve been directed to see about your case. It appears the evide
nce on which the police have been holding you has disappeared.”
For a moment, Frank couldn’t breathe. “Disappeared? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means they have nothing to prove you were engaged in any improper behavior at the time you were arrested.”
“But I killed a cop.” Frank couldn’t contain a wiggle of delight. “I mean, I smoked him. What about that?”
“Mr. Vistole. I have told the police that you were as startled as anyone in the store when the undercover police accosted you. Like any scared person would, you ran. When you encountered someone pointing a gun at you, you panicked. You drew your own weapon and defended yourself to the best of your ability.” She paused. “And for your information, the policeman you shot isn’t dead.”
“He ain’t?” Frank hoped the lawyer heard the sadness in his voice. Let her take that back to Chicago. Tell ’em Frank Vistole was downright disappointed he wasn’t able to take a blue out for the man.
“He isn’t. In fact, he’s been released and is well on his way to recovery. If anyone asks you about the shooting I suggest in the strongest possible terms that you remain loyal to the scenario I outlined to the police. From this moment forward you are nothing but eternally grateful that your shot didn’t result in the officer’s demise.”
He loved the way this chick talked. Maybe she’d buy him a beer and talk to him some more.
“There may be some questions as to the gun you had in your possession,” she continued. “But you let me handle that. Do you understand?”
Frank nodded. “Scared. Ran. Guy with a gun. Panicked. Glad the pig ain’t dead.” He pointed a finger at her. “Except you and me…we both know Frank Vistole don’t panic. I don’t mind sayin’ I did if Boss wants me to. But you let him know there was no panic. No scared. I shot that cop because he was in the way of me doing my job. Do you understand?”
Frank thought he saw a hint of a smile cross her lips. “I do, indeed, Mr. Vistole.”
“Good. Now, where we goin’?”
