“Mom, you better look at this,” Rob said. He pushed the paper across in front of where she stood over Thinnes, waiting for him to react.
“Don’t try to get him off, Rob.”
“But you need to look at this!”
The urgency in his tone got her attention, and she turned sharply away, taking the paper to the neutral territory beyond the stove. Thinnes picked at the eggs while she skimmed the article. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her anger build as she read. She threw the paper down next to his plate. He glanced at it. The headline read OFFICER HITS, GUNMAN DOESN’T RUN.
“Like I said, I was working late.”
“You couldn’t bother to tell me! You let me go on and on about some—”
“For chrissake, Ronnie, if you don’t know me better than that, what’s the point?” He looked at Rob, who’d grabbed the paper and was studying it with desperate concentration. “Rob shouldn’t have to hear us argue.”
Rhonda glanced at him, then looked at the ceiling. “You’re right, John. You’re almost always right.”
Thinnes looked up at her and, when she wouldn’t return his look, pushed his chair away from the table. He carried his plate to the sink, and stood there, looking at his hands, trying to see—through a gray fog of misery—what he’d meant to do with them. He wanted to put them on Ronnie’s shoulders and hug her and apologize, because this was the point where—in the movies—the estranged lovers kiss and make up. He knew it would just make her more angry. He let his hands drop.
He said, “Good breakfast, hon. Sorry I don’t have much appetite.”
Rhonda said nothing.
Nine
Crowne and Ferris were at tables near Evanger’s office and Karsch was getting coffee when Thinnes came in. Crowne was reading a report. Ferris was reading the Sun-Times; a half smoked cigarette burned in the ashtray next to his coffee cup.
Thinnes thought it was disillusionment with his Catholic upbringing that made Ferris more cynical than most cops. And middle age had lowered his center of gravity as well as his expectations. He was a short, auburn-haired, round-cheeked South Sider of Irish extraction—puckish, Rhonda’d called him. A grandstander, master of the cheap shot. Evanger tolerated him because he had the highest clearance record on the shift, but they were all aware that many of his cases were thrown out of court. He worked hard enough to get evidence for probable cause but didn’t bother with the more strenuous proof required for beyond a reasonable doubt. Sheer laziness, Thinnes’d decided long ago.
“Hey Thinnes, you lose your piece?” Ferris demanded.
Thinnes wasn’t really listening. “No. Why?”
Ferris drowned the cigarette in his coffee cup and threw the cup in the wastebasket beside his desk. “Hear you’re shootin’ guys down with your car.”
“What?”
Ferris laughed. Thinnes realized he’d been had.
“If you don’t have enough to do…”
Ignoring Ferris, Crowne shook the paper he’d been reading at Thinnes. “Preliminary autopsy report.” He paused to find something on the page. “Says here Finley died from ‘a gunshot wound to the head’ roughly twelve to fifteen hours before the super found him. ‘No other marks of violence, no drugs, no apparent pathology.’ His fingerprints were on the gun and he had gunshot residue on his right hand. Thinnes, you don’t have a case.”
“Right. So what did you find out about Dr. Caleb?”
“You had your hearing tested lately?”
Thinnes waited. Crowne finally took out his notebook.
“Subject drove up to Evanston. Went into a house on Orrington belonging to a Margaret Linsey. He was greeted at the door by a female cauc—”
“Girlfriend?”
“I doubt it. Looked like jailbait to me. And an older woman—also cauc—saw him out. Very friendly.
“Coulda been the younger one’s mother. Anyway, he apparently had dinner there—was there about two hours. He left at six fifty-eight and drove to Northwestern Memorial Hospital—he drives a Jag, by the way. He remained at Northwestern until seven forty-five, when he drove into Uptown, to a Spaulding House, on Wilson. Parked inside—”
“What’s this Spaulding House?”
Crowne shrugged. “Anyway, he was in there about four and a half hours. Then he drove home. If he went anywhere else last night, he didn’t take his car. I checked the odometer this morning—after I heard the news I figured you wouldn’t…Car hadn’t been moved.”
Thinnes pick up the autopsy report. “Thanks, Ray.” He started to read and, without looking up, said, “Find out about this Spaulding House, would you?”
“You’re wasting the taxpayers’ money, Thinnes.”
Thinnes glanced up from the report but didn’t say anything.
Crowne shrugged, picked up the phone, and pushed a button. “We got a narc in the building? We need one up here. Tell him I got a hot tip.” He listened for a moment then said, “Thanks.”
The operations sergeant walked up to Thinnes with a telephone message slip and a coffee mug. “New York called. They couldn’t get hold of the sister in the Finley case.” Thinnes looked up at him. “She’s out of the country. They gathered she’s got the kind of job where they’d call you if you were in the hospital with appendicitis, so she was real vague about letting them know her travel plans. S’posed to be back a week from Monday. NYPD left word with the landlady to have her call.” He dropped the slip on the table in front of Thinnes and headed for the coffee maker.
Crowne tipped his chair back against the edge of table behind him and laced his fingers behind his head. He nudged Thinnes’s chair with his foot. “Finley’ll keep.”
Thinnes picked up the slip and waved it. “Looks like this lets the sister off the hook.”
“Unless it was a contract hit.”
“There’s a frightening thought.” Thinnes dragged out his wallet and shuffled through it for the insurance card that had the phone number he wanted scribbled on the back. He punched the number on his phone and when the call was answered, said, “Mike? John Thinnes.”
Mike said, “Not ready.”
“So?”
“Good news is, your windshield’s in. An’ I got you a door.” He hesitated.
Thinnes said, “Something’s wrong.”
“Who’d you have workin’ on it?” There was hurt in his tone.
“What?”
“Cheap brake job’s worth what you pay…”
“You did the brakes. Last month,” Thinnes interrupted. “Check your books.”
“No way!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Bleeder screw loose. ’S why your brakes went. Bone dry.”
He meant the master cylinder. Thinnes didn’t ask if he was sure. Brakes were not something Mike would screw up. “It must’ve worked loose.”
“Shit!”
“You didn’t work on them yourself.”
“Naw. But my guys…I’d watch my back.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. What was the bad news?”
“Door’s maroon.”
“So, paint it.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Reminds me. Kid you sent me’s A-OK.”
“Are you keeping a close watch on your parts room?”
“Told ’im if I caught ’im stealing from me, I’d have Guido break his hands.”
“He believed you?”
Mike laughed. “Gives ’im an excuse to tell his sticky-fingered bros to get lost. Anyway, ’s too busy to get in trouble. Put ’im in charge of the body shop.”
“Maybe you weren’t listening when I told you where he worked last.”
“Yeah, I was. An’ he put Stop ’n’ Chop an’ Midnight Auto Parts on his ap. But I swear he’s forgotten more’n most ever knew about bodywork. An’ he’s got a regular girlfriend, nice little Catholic chick from Guadalajara. Think he’s gonna keep his nose clean. Fact, I’m bettin’ in five years he’ll have three kids an’ a mortgage an’ enough clean money i
n the bank to buy me out.”
Thinnes heard someone yell “Mike!” in the background and Mike didn’t give him a chance to respond to the prediction. He said, “Gotta go. Tomorrow. After eight,” and hung up.
Thinnes put down the receiver and went over the 211 in his mind. He hadn’t thought about the brakes when he’d nearly tail-ended the car at the light. But now that he thought about it, the pedal had gone to the floor when he’d braked to avoid killing the gunman. So the brakes were dry. A loose bleeder screw was more likely to be negligence than…What? Attempted murder? Why? He hadn’t busted anyone special lately, wasn’t scheduled to testify against anyone big. Still…
He tipped his chair back and turned to Ferris. “Ferris, what was the name of that insurance hit guy?”
“The one who always made it look like an accident?”
“Yeah.”
“Russo.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s doing life plus a hundred years at Menard. Why?”
“Thinnes was thinking of hiring him to do you, Ferris,” Crowne said. He thought for a minute, then told Thinnes, “I was just kiddin’ about Finley being a contract job. And anyway, Finley’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“Yeah,” Thinnes said. Mike hasn’t been watching his crew close enough, he thought. And he’s been watching too much TV.
Five minutes later, Thinnes was going over the paperwork on the Finley case. Ferris was playing with his phone. Karsch was standing in his doorway, coffee cup in hand. Crowne was at the coffee maker when a peculiar-looking man with a shaved head and Salvation Army-reject clothes wandered into the squad room. He had a regulation ID clipped to his jacket. “Somebody call for narcotics?” he asked.
“Hey, Crowne,” Ferris called, “there’s something here asking for you.” He pointed to Crowne’s chair, and the narc ambled over to perch on the edge of the table next to it. Crowne hurried back with two plastic cups. He handed one to his visitor. “Abbot, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Abbot wiped his hand on his pants and shoved it at Crowne. They shook. “What’s up?”
Thinnes answered. “You ever bust the Spaulding House?”
Abbot turned to Thinnes. “Spaulding House. Spaulding House. On Wilson?” Thinnes nodded. “Ah, no.”
“You mean it’s clean?” Crowne asked.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What manner?”
“They’re not dealing to the neighborhood, and nobody’s made any complaints.”
“When’s that ever stopped you makin’ a bust?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s where queers go to die. They could be up to their crotches in crack—nobody gives a damn. They’re all corpses already.”
“You mean it’s a hospice?” Thinnes asked.
“Yeah. And they’re not dealin’ the streets, so we leave ’em alone. Got better things to do than roust stiffs.”
“He means there’s not a narc on the force with the balls to walk in there,” Ferris gibed.
Crowne told Ferris, “Fuck off!”
Ferris looked around for ammunition and spotted Karsch. “Hey, Karsch, s’there some kind of weirdness test these guys take to get in narcotics?” Karsch shook his head as if confounded by Ferris’s immaturity. “Look at you, Abbot,” Ferris continued. “There’s no street people dress as weird as narcs. How can you call yourselves undercover?”
Abbot didn’t seem upset. “You just ask me up here to insult me?”
“Naw,” Ferris said. He crumpled his coffee cup and walked over to press the resulting mess into Abbot’s hand. “We called you up to present you with this award: best costume design by an undercover team.”
“She-it!” Abbot said. He threw the cup at Ferris, then turned to Crowne. “What’s this hot tip you got?”
Thinnes answered. “Next time one of these clowns has a hot tip, make ’em come down to you with it.”
Lieutenant Evanger’s door opened, and Evanger stuck his head out. “Thinnes, come in here, and bring what you have on the Finley shooting.”
Evanger’s office was the workplace of a man with modern ideas, from the PC on his desktop to the fax machine next to it. The wife and children pictured on his desk might have been models for Ebony. Evanger, himself, was a man in his fifties, a light-skinned black with a large, beaklike nose and a wide, stern mouth. He wore his hair in a neat natural and had a trim mustache. He’d come up through the ranks, but somewhere along the line he’d learned to dress like an attorney, and—even in August—he wore three-piece suits. A man on his way to the top, distinguished and ambitious.
Thinnes had heard rumors that Evanger’s reputation was cleaner than he was, though he thought the rumors were mostly sour grapes. What wasn’t just a rumor was the lieutenant’s fondness for local politics, though there, too, he kept his record clean.
Evanger took the supplementary report from Thinnes and waved it at a chair. Thinnes sat down. Evanger hitched his rear up on his desk and glanced at the report, then at Thinnes.
“For the record, the department takes a dim view of unorthodox methods.”
“Noted.” Thinnes paused. “For the record.”
“Off the record, that was a nice piece of work last night. Even if you didn’t take credit for the bust.”
“That mean I get to use a car till mine’s out of the shop?”
Evanger laughed. He glanced at the report again. “Bottom line on this Finley thing: what have we got here?”
“Finley was murdered, but I can’t prove it yet.”
“What have you got?”
“The psychology’s all wrong.” He paused to get it in order. “Here’s a guy’s such a compulsive neatnik, you can’t find dust on the tops of his doors—I checked—blows his brains out all over his designer walls. And right-handed, when half a dozen people swear he was a southpaw. It doesn’t make sense.”
Evanger picked up his phone and pushed several buttons. Into the phone he said, “Karsch, have you got a minute?” He put down the phone and studied the report until Karsch came in.
Karsch said, “Lieutenant?”
“You read the report on the Finley death?” Karsch nodded. “What do you think?”
“An interesting situation.”
“You need a Ph.D. to tell me that?”
“It’s possible Finley killed himself. People often behave compulsively to control their unacceptable impulses towards violence or disorder. If those impulses break through the control, the compulsive can do things apparently quite out of character.”
“Like shoot himself with his right hand when he was left-handed?”
“Not quite. But I’d say that without more data, there’s no way to know with certainty. And without evidence, there’s nothing you could do even if you knew for certain.”
Evanger nodded. “Fair enough. Thinnes, you got any evidence?”
“Not yet, but if I stir things up enough, something’ll surface.”
“Well, file your report, and stir ’em on a back burner. We’ve got plenty of cases pending for which we do have evidence.”
Thinnes nodded. As he left he heard Karsch ask, “Why don’t you just tell him to forget it?” and Evanger answer, “There’s no point. He won’t. He’ll work it on his own time if he has to.”
Ten
Thinnes lay next to Rhonda, watching her sleep, feeling longing and regret he couldn’t express. For some time he’d had the feeling she was lost to him. He knew better than to ask or accuse her—which would be to lose her instantly. He feared she might have taken a lover, though not greatly. On some level, Rhonda was the last person in the world Thinnes trusted. What she had taken was almost impossible to fight: what she’d taken was a career job, the first step toward independence. A maggot of uneasiness gnawed at his insides.
He reached over to gently touch her cheek, and she wakened, giving him a smile that faded as she remembered how things were between them.
Before he could say anything, she rolled on her back, staring at the ceiling. “I have to work today. We’ve got three people out sick.”
He shrugged, resigned. He wished she was still teaching. He hadn’t felt threatened when she was teaching. It was a woman’s job, so in some respects, not really a job, not full time. The men she’d come in contact with were mostly wimps, or older—no competition for a half decent husband, and anyway, too worried about appearances to fool around. But she’d had the sense to quit teaching when she burned out. She liked the office she managed now. Thinnes thought she even liked the long hours.
He said, “So we’ll see dad next weekend.”
“You could go by yourself. Or take Rob.”
And give the old man more proof he and Ronnie were heading for the rocks. No way. He had enough to worry about without that.
“Rob’s got plans.” He propped his head on his hand and watched her reaction as he added, “I have to work Wednesday night—pickpocket detail at some society function. So we’re even.”
“Wanna trade?” she said dryly. She threw back the covers and stretched to give him a perfunctory kiss that blocked any move on his part toward real reconciliation. Clutching the covers with white knuckles, he watched her cross the room and disappear into the bathroom.
Eleven
Mike’s place was a converted auto dealership on West Fullerton. Mike had turned the showroom into a body shop that ran with the speed and efficiency of an outfit chop shop. And why not? Half Mike’s employees were ex-cons. He was very popular with the John Howard Association.
Stealing and shoddy work were about the only things Mike wouldn’t put up with. His tolerance for variations in race, creed, work history, and standards of personal hygiene extended to allowing people between leases to crash in the shop, so Thinnes wasn’t surprised to find the place open at six A.M.; convenience was one of Mike’s selling points. Thinnes was surprised when Mike himself popped out of the office with the bill.
“It’s Sunday,” Thinnes said, shaking hands.
The Man Who Understood Cats Page 5
