by E. C. Diskin
Trip sat back down. “Well, she is a lawyer, Mike.”
“I know, it’s just that . . .”
“What?”
“She saw me. She looked away. She looked kind of nervous.”
“Mike, why wouldn’t she look away? Did you expect her to come over and chat? That doesn’t sound like a problem.” Trip was feeding Mike bullshit because he couldn’t take him getting any more nervous. But Trip had felt uneasy about Abigail Donovan ever since he heard about her going to the Quick Mart auction. It seemed like she was nosing around. And he wasn’t about to let her figure any of this out.
“When I picked her up a few weeks back, she was researching forfeiture laws.”
“What? How do you know?”
“She was holding the papers when I got there. Dropped them right in front of me.”
“But you were at her office, right? In uniform?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Trip thought some more. “Listen, I want you to call her office a few times this week. If she answers, just say you’re checking in to see if she’s remembered anything. If she doesn’t, leave messages with her secretary. Don’t do voice mail.”
“Why?”
“Don’t worry about the why. Just do it. And I’m going to see what I can find out.”
“Well, I just saw her with Nate Walters.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s the lawyer suing the department and several cops for all sorts of shit. Everyone’s up in arms about it.”
“What’s the basis?”
“Some woman that lives in one of the few remaining projects by Cellular Field. She says she was terrorized by some cops on more than one occasion.”
“I don’t know about that.”
The courtroom was filling quickly now.
Trip got up to leave and leaned in. “Don’t worry. I’m taking care of Abigail Donovan. Just in case.”
Mike looked up at him and opened his mouth but didn’t say anything.
Trip gave him a pat on the head. “See ya.”
SEVENTEEN
ABBY sat in the conference room staring at the frozen television screen. She called Marcus in a panic. He picked up on the third ring and sounded glad to hear from her.“Detective, something’s happened.”
“What’s up, Abby?”
“Something’s going on here. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Just start at the beginning.”
“I just ran into Ali Rashid’s attorney. The one I had found him. We were at the courthouse. Anyway, he said Ali had brought him some security tapes from his store. He offered to give them to me and they just arrived.”
“Okay?”
“Officer Reilly is on tape, coming in for coffee and finding drugs, and arresting this kid.”
“Okay.”
“I recognize the kid! He’s been to my house. Three times now. I don’t know who he is or what he wants. He always comes when I’m not home. He yells my name. It’s weird. He tried to get my neighbor to let him in, saying he was my cousin. I saw him yesterday as I was walking home and I yelled out to him, but he ran off.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t think of it. I mean, it never occurred to me that he could have something to do with Ali. I didn’t know what to think. I just thought it was some punk.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at the firm.”
“I want to see those tapes.”
“Can you get here now? I’ve got a monitor and player set up in the conference room. I’m on the fiftieth floor.” She had requested the room and equipment to go over video depositions all afternoon. “It’s private.”
“I’m not exactly dressed to come to your firm right now. I’m in my ’hood wear.”
Abby enjoyed the reference. She could picture it. It was quite a transformation even though it was just a matter of wearing clothes that fit and losing the jewelry.
“Just take off that giant medallion. No one will really see you anyway if you come to this floor. There’s no main reception. The conference room is right off the elevator banks. You’ll see me.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
MARCUS and Abby watched the footage: It was the same kid. Arrested twice and he was on the tape moments before drugs were found at the coffee station.
“So if this kid planted drugs at Ali’s store, why would he come to your house? How would he know about you?”
“I don’t know. What if he comes back?”
“You call the cops. I’d say call me, but a local cop could get to you much faster.”
“Have you found anything out?”
“Only that the bartender of Reggie’s thinks he’s being framed. The kids in the neighborhood say he’s not a drug dealer. Apparently police officers came in weeks before that night, harassing him and the patrons, allegedly finding drugs. He’s now up on two separate charges. He assumes he’s screwed. He might be right.”
Abby sat with her notepad and pen, sketching her thoughts as they talked. “So we’ve got three people dead. All bodies found by Reilly. Both crime scenes allegedly connected to drug trafficking. Both properties seized.”
“And in both cases, there’s reason to doubt that there was actual drug trafficking going on.”
“What if this is about property?” Abby asked. “I mean, both places have been seized, both the result of drugs that could have been planted there.”
“But what’s the motivation? The department might make some money when the properties are sold, but how does that help a cop on the street?”
“Real estate forfeiture brings in a lot of money. According to the law, sixty-five percent of the profit from the property sale goes directly back to the agency that conducted the investigation. Don’t you think that creates an incentive to make them happen? I’m not saying the department would suggest planting evidence, but if there are incentives to the officers—even Christmas bonuses, perhaps? People have committed crimes for less.”
“I don’t know. I’ll discuss it with Duvane and see what he can find out. Seems pretty unlikely.”
“Well, maybe we should see if Reilly’s made any other arrests that resulted in real estate seizures in the last year. And maybe we should find out what’s happened to those buildings.”
“You’re going to keep helping me, aren’t you?”
Abby smiled. “And why not?”
“Abby, I’m concerned about this kid showing up at your place. I want to figure out who that is.”
“Me too.” He had only seemed like an irritation. “But if he was involved in Ali’s arrest, and Ali ended up dead,…” The thought was hard to finish. “I wonder if there are any more tapes at the store. Maybe there’s a tape from the day of the murder!”
Marcus retrieved the tape from the machine. “I’m going to take this, okay?”
Abby stood, excited by the thought. “Absolutely. Hey, why don’t you go to Quick Mart right now? It’s probably still as it was. It was just last week that I went to the auction, so the new owners don’t close until Friday.”
Marcus was putting on his coat. “Just slow down a minute, Abby. I don’t know about breaking into the Quick Mart. I have to be pretty careful about not getting myself arrested. Let me talk to Duvane. Maybe he can get an officer in there to check the machine.”
Abby thought about this for a second. “You don’t have to break in. Go to the back door. There’s this loose brick. It’s just about a foot above the door handle. Pull the brick out and you might find a key. I know it seems dumb, but when Ali drove me home, he put the key there for his friend. It was pretty inconspicuous. Maybe they always left keys there for each other.”
Marcus was still thinking.
“Please, it’s worth a try. Now go!” She was pushing him out of the room. He laughed at her forcefulness. It made her smile too.
In only a week, she felt connected to him. It felt good to have someone to talk to again.
· · ·
&nb
sp; MARCUS left Abby and jumped on the Green Line. He pulled his gold medallion out of his pocket and like the touch of a magic wand, blended in perfectly again. He got off at the Pulaski stop and found the Quick Mart on the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Brown paper now covered the windows of the store so he couldn’t see in, though the sign remained. He walked around to the alley, found the back door, and saw the loose brick. He pulled it out and sure enough, found a key.
Once inside, Marcus quickly surveyed the space. Just as Abby had said, the shelves were still full of food and convenience store items, though all of the refrigerators along the back wall were empty and turned off. He went to the front by the cash register. A tape machine and a monitor were on the shelf just below the counter. But the machine was empty. He began searching the cabinets and boxes in the area for any tapes.
Bell chimes rattled and startled him. He looked up and saw the shadow of someone just outside the front door. Someone had obviously tried the door. Marcus froze and watched. He could hear someone outside. It was a woman’s voice. She was on the phone. He reached over the counter to the window by the door and pulled back the brown paper. He could see long hair and part of a big fluffy white coat.
“Yeah, it’s locked. Don’t worry.” It wasn’t hard to hear her. They were only about two feet apart, and the glass couldn’t have been too thick because Marcus could feel the cold air as he leaned toward it. “I put up the sign. Okay, will do.” The woman closed the phone and headed toward the street. Abby had said a young woman at the auction bought the building. This must be her, though it sounded like she was working for someone.
She got into a red Porsche that was pulled up front. He grabbed a pen by the register and noted the license plate on his palm as she drove off.
He pulled out his cell, called Duvane, and left a message. “It’s Henton. I need someone to run this Illinois plate for me: C V R 1 9 0. Could you ask your assistant to do that and fax me the registration at my place? Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”
· · ·
TRIP left Mike at the courthouse and called Jason from his car. The Walters lawsuit Mike mentioned sounded a little too familiar. Jason answered on the third ring.
“Hey Jason, it’s T. Listen, I’ve got a present for ya. Where are you?”
“I’m at home.”
“Why?” Jason always worked the day shift on Mondays.
“Because I’ve been put on leave.”
“What happened?” He feared he already knew.
“Remember those little house calls we made back in November?”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“That woman at the Gardens.”
“Seventh floor?”
“That’s the one. She got a lawyer. She’s suing the department and named me, Darrel, and Joe. We’ve all been put on leave. Of course, the city’s fighting back hard, but she’s not rolling over. Shit is hittin’ the fan.”
“Shit.”
“You’re tellin’ me. You’re one lucky fuck too. I guess no one has figured out who you were. You’re described in the complaint, but never named.”
“You gonna name me?”
“T, come on. You know us better than that. All three of us are denying ever going there. Our lawyer is pulling up her background, calling her delusional, drug-addicted, whatever. We can’t name you or we’d admit to being there. You’re fine.”
Trip took a deep sigh. He’d been pushing it. Two years off the force. No problems. He was finally getting everything he’d wanted. He couldn’t take any more chances. This was all getting too close. “Dude, I’m really sorry. Hey, who’s the lawyer for the woman?”
“Nathan Walters.”
So Abigail Donovan was working with Nathan Walters. Who is this fucking bitch, Abigail Donovan, and why does she keep getting in my business? “Listen, I just wanted to give you your cut.”
“Fed Ex me a check. Cashier’s check.”
“Will do. Tell Darrel and Joe I’ll do the same for them. And listen, I hope this goes away. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure.”
That settled it. “All good things must come to an end,” Trip said out loud. Now he just needed to be sure no one could take him down. He felt pretty good about everything that had gone on during the last few months. And most of his deals were years old by now, too far to trace back or worry about. This lawsuit was little too close for comfort, but it looked like he was clear. But if Leon or any of those fucks from Reggie’s fingered him with Jason, Darrel and Joe, that would be a problem. He couldn’t just sit and wait to find out. He’d get rid of the loose ends and move on.
· · ·
ABBY went home at five that night, anxious to escape the office and feel the warmth of a fire at home. Her mind had wandered all day from the work in front of her to Ali, the kid on the tape, and now Isabel Ramirez.
She sat in her overstuffed chair by the fire, with her hot chocolate in hand, and reviewed Ramirez’s testimony about the events that lead to the suit.
On November 6, 2003, at about 3:30 p.m., I was grabbed by four men as I was leaving my building. They was all wearing bullet proof vests. They did not identify themselves as officers, but I knew they was. An unmarked car, blue Ford, was parked twenty feet in front of us. They was armed. One grabbed me forcefully by the arm, put a gun to my head and took my keys. [Ms. Ramirez later identified this man as Officer Jason O’Brien.] They lead me back into the building, demanding that I take them to my apartment. Once inside, they started yelling about wanting to find drugs. I had no drugs and didn’t know why they was picking on me. They threw things around the apartment, looking for drugs. They tossed my framed picture of Jesus Christ across the room and shattered the glass. They called me names. I was crying and begged them to go. Another officer [who Ms. Ramirez later identified as Officer Joe Mackenzie], pulled me into a bedroom, told me to open my clothes and show him the drugs. I cried and pleaded for mercy as I opened my blouse and pants. The officer pushed me aside afterward. They all continued to search through the apartment. They kept calling me names—nigger, bitch, whore—and threatened to come back and shoot me if they found out I was hiding anything. A couple a my neighbors heard the commotion and so they came over to check on me. The officers pulled them into the room with guns drawn, threw them to the ground and told them not to move. After about ten more minutes, the officers had trashed my house and were ready to give up. One of them [Ms. Ramirez later identified as Officer Darrel Miller] told those boys on the floor to beat each other up or they’d do it for them. I just cried and cried. The boys looked up at them like they was crazy. But one of the officers kicked at them in the back, like they was animals in a show. The boys began to punch each other. The officers clapped and cheered. I reported them to OPS [Office of Professional Standards]. I found out who three of the four officers was. The fourth was white with blond hair. The other officers called him “T.” The OPS didn’t help me none. Those cops returned two weeks later and did more of the same. I have not slept through the night since it happened.
Abby wiped her tears, thinking of the woman she had met this morning. She closed the document and picked up the phone. Nate’s phone went to voice mail.
“Nate, it’s Abby. I just read through the papers you gave me. I’m in.”
EIGHTEEN
THE week flew by. There had been no sign of the boy all week and work had consumed Abby’s every thought. It was a welcome break from her latest stresses. She spent several fourteen-hour days at the office and, by Friday, she felt some sense of relief, calm, and exhaustion. There was more to do, always, but work had taken enough of her energy this week. She had caught up on her major cases and so she lay in her bed and tried to relish the peace of the moment. Her stomach had been in knots for weeks now. Months, really. She started thinking about the last time she had fun. It had been at least six months. Other than Sarah’s wedding, she hadn’t even really gone out socially since the break-up. She missed laughing.
&nbs
p; David had made her laugh. He seemed like the only person who could bring her out of her intense locomotion. But even he was only successful for brief periods. Something always pulled her back, pushing her to regain focus, to keep her eye on the goal. And now, on top of work, she had murders and drugs and dirty cops on the brain.
She watched The Today Show and read the Tribune, taking time to review the Friday section to see who was playing at the Green Mill. She and David had loved going there to see all the different bands. She watched Oprah, then put on some music. Finally, by ten thirty, she figured she needed to get into the office.
Abby was showering, singing along with Sheryl Crow, who was blasting from the bedroom, when she heard a faint buzz. She stopped singing and heard it again. She turned off the water, wrapped up in a towel, and ran over to her bedroom window to look out into the courtyard. A young guy was standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the gate. It was that kid again. She heard the buzzer again. He was ringing her unit, pacing in front of the gate, and clapping his hands together. She could see his breath. It was about fifteen degrees outside. She watched, not sure what to do. He looked around and then grabbed the gate and started shaking it, like a monkey in a cage. He began screaming, “Hey Abby. Get out here. Where are you? I gotta see you!” She hid behind the curtain. Who the hell was that guy?
She grabbed the phone by her bed and went back to the window. There was a flashing light. Through the trees she could see a man handcuffing the boy. He stuck the kid in the back of his car—a plain blue car with a blue flashing strobe light stuck near the edge of the roof, just over the driver’s door. Abby quickly searched through the pile of unfolded laundry on the floor for some underwear, grabbed her glasses from beside her bed, and peeked out the window. Mrs. Tanor was walking over to talk to the man. Of course. Mrs. Tanor had probably been watching from her window too, frightened and worried by the repeat visitor. Mrs. Tanor and the officer were now on the other side of the front gate and the trees blocked Abby’s view. She got down on her knees so she could see what was happening. She should get down there. She dropped the phone, fumbled for a T-shirt and pants, and took another look out the window before heading for the first floor. Mrs. Tanor and the officer came through the gate into the courtyard.
