by Ian K. Smith
I wanted his mind to hurt first, experience the psychological torture his victims had for so many years. Then I wanted his body to hurt so he could experience the physical torment they all claimed to have suffered. His arrogance was astounding. The church had bought his freedom and given him a way out, a chance to quietly disappear. But he defied it all, still wearing the collar and still ministering to the innocent and unsuspecting. How many others had he damaged? How many other lives had he stolen?
I SAT UNDER THE barbell in the basement of Hammer’s gym staring up at 290 pounds of iron. It had been a while since I’d lifted so much, but it was a chance to distract my mind from all the uncertainty surrounding Tinsley’s disappearance. I had a collection of dots on the page, but none of them appeared sequential. I had left a couple of messages with Violet Gerrigan, but she hadn’t called me back, which was strange, since she typically checked in at least once a day.
I grabbed the barbell with both hands, hoisted myself up one time to loosen my muscles, then put my back flat on the bench and pushed the weight off the rack. It felt heavy but good. As I inhaled, I slowly lowered the barbell just above my chest, then pushed with all my might to avoid the damn thing crushing me. I was two inches from locking the lift when the weight wouldn’t move. I squirmed a little with my shoulders, which typically did the trick, but the barbell still wouldn’t budge. My elbows started to wobble, and I was quickly planning on how I could bail from underneath the weight fast enough without it decapitating me as I let go. Then there was a tug, and my arms felt light. The barbell slapped back into the rack.
“Next time ask for a spot, hotshot,” Hammer said, standing over me. “Only fools have pride in the weight room.”
I shook out my arms and hit the shower. Tonight was Sunday Night Football, which meant pizza-and-beer night. I called in my order of a thin-crust pie-cut at a place called Pizano’s in the South Loop. It was one of the few places in Chicago where you could get something resembling a true New York slice, a habit I’d picked up while studying at Boston College.
I walked out the door and stopped immediately. A stunning woman was leaning delicately on my Porsche. Her evening dress hugged every curve perfectly, and the side slit made it abundantly clear that these legs were made for the runway.
“A sight for all kinds of eyes,” I said, as I approached.
“Dinner plans?” Carolina said. “I’m available.”
“I don’t know if pizza and beer go with that dress,” I said, unlocking the car.
“That’s exactly what I was in the mood for,” she said.
We jumped in the car, and she explained that she’d had a date at some charity dinner with some mini mogul finance guy, but all he wanted to talk about was how many houses he owned and how much expensive metal and carbon fiber he had parked in his ten-car garage. So, she’d ditched him and come looking for me.
We took a window seat at Pizano’s so I could see my illegally parked car. They had the football game on two of the screens over the bar. The Bears, of course, were off to a slow start.
“We have a problem,” she said.
“You have to be home by midnight?”
“I can be out all night,” she said. “I’m all grown up.”
“In more ways than one.”
She cut a small piece of pizza and took a nibble. I wasn’t a big fan of the whole knife-and-fork thing when it came to eating pizza, but it seemed to fit her perfectly.
“Where did you get that number you gave me?” she asked.
“It’s probably best you don’t know. If anything goes down, you can claim ignorance. Why do you ask?”
“There’s an F1 clearance on it,” she said. “I have the privilege, but if I access it through the internal system, my fingerprints will be all over it.”
F1 security clearances were used only when the information or person it had been attached to was of the highest priority. A small, tightly supervised list of people had an F1 clearance, and even then, the system was set up so that once someone accessed the information, an electronic record was created of when they made access. Select information was hidden behind the F1 wall, and it usually involved informants, high-level people connected to the Fifth Floor, and Feds in the FBI or intelligence services who handled highly sensitive information or whose identity needed to be protected.
“Is there a work-around? Burke knows I’ve got someone inside, but I don’t want him to know it’s you.”
“Maybe, but it would take me a couple of days to try it. I would have to go outside the system. How bad do you need the identity?”
“Given what you just told me, really bad,” I said. “I’m curious as to why this person’s identity is being so highly protected.”
“Not many possibilities. An informant, high-level political operative connected to the Fifth Floor, a Fed, or someone in IA.”
“They give Internal Affairs an F1 clearance? Since when?”
“Since the Robertson mess, when he had two of them killed. All IA-related info is parked behind the F1 now.”
A couple of years ago, Sergeant Gary Robertson was being investigated for pinching money, drugs, and guns from the busts he and his partner had made. Someone had leaked the dirt to IA, who’d opened a confidential investigation and started putting the pieces together. A total of ten officers had been implicated, but Robertson was the ringleader. In the middle of the investigation, the two lead investigators, who were still unknown to Robertson because it was still confidential, had been mysteriously shot and killed while sitting in their car in the West Loop, not far from the police academy. Robertson had gone through back channels and uncovered their identities, then ordered the hit. He’d eventually been convicted and slapped with two life sentences.
“Every time I think I know where this thing is going, it heads off in another direction,” I said.
“You think she’s still alive?”
“Depends on what time of the day you ask me. Sometimes I think so; then I learn something new, and I think she’s gone. I’m going to Connecticut tomorrow to talk to her ex-boyfriend. See what he has to say.”
“Be careful,” Carolina said. “I don’t have to remind you of how much collateral damage can happen with these wired cases.”
“No reminder necessary. I still have my separation papers signed by the HR commissioner to prove it.”
32
SLEEPING WAS SOMETHING THAT was never a problem for me, whether on a plane next to a crying baby or on a long car ride under the hot sun. But last night I couldn’t keep my eyes shut for more than a two-hour stretch. I couldn’t stop seeing Chopper’s body lying on that narrow, neglected street. He looked like he had just fallen asleep. I kept asking myself questions for which I had no answers and didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Who killed this kid and why? Where the hell was Tinsley Gerrigan?
I slid some organic frozen waffles into the oven and poured myself a tall glass of cold strawberry orange juice I had squeezed a couple of days ago. The oven timer chirped just as my cell phone sang from the kitchen counter. The fetching Carolina Espinoza.
“Couldn’t be a more perfect way to start the morning,” I said. “Tell me you haven’t gotten dressed yet.”
“Haven’t even taken my shower,” she said.
“What word trumps perfection?” I said.
“I’ve always been partial to sublime.”
“That works for me.”
“I haven’t had a chance to look into the phone number more, but I got the information on that license tag,” she said. “Came back to me late last night, but I didn’t want to bother you.”
“So, the exhumation was a success.”
“And a little mysterious.”
“I like a good mystery.”
“Even if you’re in the middle of it?”
“You’ve got my attention.”
“The company buried underneath all of these LLCs is none other than the Gerrigan Real Estate Corp.”
“I won’t offend
you by asking if you’re sure.”
“I won’t offend you by asking if you’re being safe.”
“This certainly adds a new dimension to everything.”
“Maybe they’re keeping tabs on you to make sure you’re really doing all this detecting you claim to be doing.”
“Or maybe all of my detecting has ruffled the wrong feathers.”
IT WAS AN UNCHARACTERISTICALLY warm morning, and with a few hours to spare before our flight, I decided to take advantage of what could be Mother Nature’s last blessing and kill two birdies with one golf ball. I headed south to the driving range adjacent to the Jackson Park Golf Course and chose the last stall farthest away from the motley crew of old-timers hawking swing lessons. When I needed to concentrate, I preferred the stalls closest to Lake Shore Drive, where the constant drum of rubber tires on pavement and the waves breaking onto shore proved meditative.
I had brought only three of my clubs from the car to practice, as I once heard a PGA player say that the mistake too many amateurs make is trying to hit every club in their bag during one session. His advice was to take only three or four and work on mastering the swing with just those clubs. Then, for the next session, choose a different group until you’ve worked your way through the entire bag. Today, I decided to work on my lofted clubs, since this would help me improve my approach shots to the green. I’d already hit about forty balls with my pitching wedge, and my draw was nicely shaping the ball flight from right to left. I picked up my nine iron and visualized myself left center in the fairway, about 145 yards away from the flag. Just as I brought the club up into my back swing, my phone buzzed loudly in my bag. I shanked the shot hard to the right and almost hit a car whizzing by on the drive.
It was Burke’s private cell number.
“Where the hell are you?” he blared through the phone. “Sounds like you’re in a damn wind tunnel.”
“And a good morning to you too,” I said. “I’m working with my nine iron.”
“You’re building something?”
“My golf swing.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he said. “How about working on the damn case you’ve been hired to solve.”
“This is where I do my best thinking.”
“So you say. Listen, we never had this conversation.”
“The one about my golf swing?”
“No, the one we’re about to have.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Violet Gerrigan has filed for divorce twice in the last ten years. Each time she pulled it back about a month after filing.”
“A little trouble in paradise,” I said.
“Someone got ahold of the filings. The second time she filed, she accused her husband of having multiple affairs, including with a former housekeeper.”
I wasn’t surprised. “Did he respond?”
“He didn’t need to. Both times she pulled the filing back before it went in front of the judge. Case closed.”
“Was she telling the truth?”
“According to our intel, there’s at least one extramarital relationship we’re aware of. Supposedly, he’s bopping some doctor over at Northwestern.”
“So, it turns out our Randy is quite randy.”
“You really amuse yourself.”
“Tiger Woods once said, ‘If you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?’”
“I’m glad to hear you’re taking this so seriously.”
“I stopped swinging my nine iron.”
“I’m giving this to you because I need it to be handled delicately.”
“With kid gloves,” I said.
“We haven’t even told the Fifth Floor. This needs to stay between us. But we need more answers. We move around too hard and we’re gonna leave tracks.”
“Thus, the need for my sluicing sleuthing.”
“Is there anything you take seriously?”
“Any downhill putt over five feet.”
“I need you to let me know as soon as you find something,” he said. “And call me on this number.”
“I have you on speed dial. How about telling me the name of the doctor Randy’s involved with?”
“Hold on for a sec.” The phone rustled a bit, and I could hear the sound of pages being turned. “She’s some Indian woman,” he finally said. “Dr. Gunjan Patel.”
33
DR. PATEL SAT ACROSS from me, highly sophisticated and eternally composed. Knowing what I now knew, it was difficult not to look at her and wonder how she and Randolph Gerrigan had met each other and where they met for their trysts.
“How is your search proceeding?” she asked, once the pleasantries had been exchanged. She had already taken a quick glance at her watch.
“I haven’t found her yet,” I said.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” Dr. Patel said.
“Or maybe she’s in a position where she can’t be found.”
Dr. Patel nodded. “Unfortunately, nothing has changed since your last visit,” she said. “I’m still not able to discuss specifics about our sessions.”
“I was certain you wouldn’t,” I said. “But I came to discuss something altogether different. Or maybe it’s related. I’m not sure.”
“What would that be?”
“Randolph Gerrigan,” I said.
I looked closely for a tell, a tightening of her jaw, a quick eye blink, the straightening of her back. Not a single twitch. A true professional.
“What about Randolph Gerrigan?” she said.
“Are the two of you familiar?” I asked.
“He’s an acquaintance,” she said. “I know of him because of Tinsley. But he is not a patient of mine.”
“Maybe that depends on what you mean by patient,” I said.
“I’m a physician, Mr. Cayne. There’s only one definition of patient, and it’s very simple. It doesn’t apply to Randolph Gerrigan.”
“What about adulterer?” I said. “Is that also a simple definition?”
She moved slightly in her chair. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this. What exactly is your point?”
“C’mon, Dr. Patel, let’s not go around and around. You and Randolph Gerrigan are more than acquaintances. You’re lovers.”
She smiled confidently, almost relieved. It wasn’t the response I had expected. “Is that what you’ve come to discuss with me?”
“Is that protected by patient-doctor confidentiality too?”
“Doesn’t need to be,” she said. “My relationship with Randolph Gerrigan is none of your damn business. A word to the wise. If I were you, I would focus on what you’ve been hired to do and not poke around in places where you shouldn’t be.”
“So, I can take that as a yes?”
“Take it as a courteous warning that you are going places where you don’t belong,” she said, standing. Her smile tightened. “People who get into things over their head tend to drown.”
THERE WAS NO EASY way to get to Stamford, Connecticut. This small city was tucked away in the southeastern part of the almost rectangular state, making it just under an hour’s drive from New York City’s LaGuardia Airport, depending on the unpredictable traffic snaking up the busy I-95 corridor. Connecticut’s biggest and only commercial airport sat an hour and a half north in Hartford, just underneath the Massachusetts border. Mechanic and I took a gamble with I-95 and got lucky. We pulled our black Mustang into a visitor’s spot half an hour before our scheduled meeting with Blair Malone.
We rolled the windows down to take in the bucolic countryside as we sat in the car for a bit. We didn’t want to appear too eager. Judging by all the glass and steel and the percentage of foreign cars parked in the lot, GFX Financial was quite a successful enterprise. The trees blew softly in the warm wind.
After a few minutes, Mechanic said, “I don’t care how much money they paid me, I couldn’t live like this.”
“You got something against trees?”
“There’s just too much of ev
erything,” he said. “Too many trees. Too much green grass. Too many Volvo station wagons with college stickers in the back window. Too many damn golf courses.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “I was with you until the golf courses.”
“I mean there’s even too much space in their parking lots,” he said. “They’re all the size of football fields.”
“Welcome to the great vastness of suburbia,” I said.
“You can’t do simple stuff like stop by the corner and grab a slice of pizza or walk to a deli and grab a cold brew. You need a car to go everywhere.”
“Same thing in LA,” I said.
“Yeah, but at least in LA there’s somewhere to go. There’s nothing to do here but plant gardens and ride horses.”
“The industrious can always play golf.”
My cell phone buzzed. Gordon confirmed our dinner at eight o’clock at a steakhouse called Porter House Bar and Grill in the Time Warner Center at 10 Columbus Circle. By the time we got back to the city, I’d be ready for a nice cut of meat.
We entered the modernist glass tower, and after passing muster with the receptionist, an overly serious security guard escorted us upstairs to a conference room overlooking the back of the property. More grass and trees and a flat nine-hole golf course with a few water features. Three foursomes were working their way around the plush fairways.
The door opened, and Blair Malone walked in. He wore dark-blue denims, a powder-blue patterned dress shirt and suede riding shoes with shiny Ferragamo buckles. He was tall, broad shouldered, and in great shape. His chestnut-colored hair had been cut perfectly. He looked at both of us, trying to decide who was Ashe.
I stood and extended my hand. “Ashe Cayne,” I said. His grip was firm, as I expected. “This is my associate, Dmitri.” Mechanic stayed seated on the opposite side of the table and nodded.
“So, how can I help you?” Blair said, closing the door behind him and taking a seat at the head of the table.
