A Time for Secrets (15 page)

My waitress came over; I recognized her as one of the actress wannabes but couldn’t think of her name. She asked if I wanted a drink, and, even though it was early, I ordered a Johnnie Walker on the rocks. The drink arrived a few minutes later and I busied myself with the menu. It wasn’t an extensive menu, and I’d had most everything on it. Most of the dishes were made with French bread and/or brie. It made me long for mashed potatoes.

With my nose buried in the menu, I was surprised when Aunt Bev plopped her over-large leather purse onto the table. She’d barely sat down when she said, “What are you doing, Nicky? You shouldn’t be involved in this.”

“What am I involved in?” I thought for a moment she might actually tell me, but she kept quiet.

The waitress whose name I couldn’t remember came back and told us the specials with a great deal of dramatic flourish. An omelet with broccoli and brie. The soup was chilled strawberry, which sounded horrible. When the girl walked away, I asked my aunt to give me the report. She shook her head.

“Then give me back the check,” I said.

I knew perfectly well that she’d already been to a Cash Station and deposited the check and that Sid’s gambling debts had more than likely been paid off, or at least promised, before they got into bed Saturday night. Aunt Bev didn’t have anything to give back to me. The look in her eyes told me this was true.

“If you just give me a couple of weeks.”

“Give me the report.”

“Your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

“My mother won’t know you had anything to do with it,” I pointed out.

She sat quietly for a minute and said, “You could never follow the rules, could you, Nicky?”

“I used to be a police officer. I know how to follow rules.”

“I’m not talking about those rules. I’m talking about the real ones. The ones everybody knows about but nobody writes down.”

“You’re not big on those rules yourself, Aunt Bev,” I said.

“That’s not true.” I gave her a look and she said, “Sid’s a nice Catholic boy, now. I followed the rules just fine.”

We sat quietly for a moment, then she reached into her enormous purse and took out the report. She slid it across the table. I snatched it up and began to scan it. I didn’t need to read the body of the report; I knew that it would be a pack of lies. And I didn’t need to look at the names of the men arrested. I had them from the
Daily Herald
. What I needed was the name of the arresting officer and any other officers mentioned in the report. There were four total. Three were unfamiliar: Eddie Reilly, Sean Kale, Marty Straub. But the last name, the last one I recognized.

“Oh my God,” I said, then looked up at my aunt. She was already gone.

I looked back at the report again. The arresting officer was Sergeant Thomas Finnegan. Now Alderman Thomas Finnegan. Now running for mayor.

I ha
d
to admit it was something of a relief not to find the names of any of my relatives on the report. I had no doubt they’d all participated in similar raids. I just appreciated that they weren’t involved in this particular one. But Thomas Finnegan, that was huge, and it was easy to see why Aunt Bev had been so reluctant to give me the report. He was a powerful guy.

I flagged down the waitress and told her my aunt wasn’t feeling well and that I’d be eating alone. I ordered the special, though I wasn’t sure I’d be able to eat more than a few bites of it; she offered me the soup and I turned it down. Before she took off, I asked for a pen. Reluctantly, she pulled one out of her apron.

“Try to give it back to me. I start every day with five pens and I never end the shift with more than one.”

I assured her the precious nineteen-cent Bic would be returned and, without even waiting for her to leave, began to make notes on the paper place mat. The first thing I wrote down was the word “MAYOR.” That was the big thing I knew about Thomas Finnegan. He wanted to be mayor, and people—presumably important people—thought
he
might be able to win.

From what I remembered, he’d been working on becoming mayor for a while. He’d moved into our ward deliberately to run a few years before. There’d been a couple of derogatory articles about that, but it had blown over. Especially when it became clear that Finnegan was going for the gay vote. I wrote that down, too, “GAY VOTE.”

We were a voting bloc these days. I c
ould
only imagine what someone like Ronald Meek thought about that, but it had been proven a few years back when a gay politician got elected in San Francisco. Obviously, that hadn’t turned out well in the end, but politicians everywhere took note. In certain areas, gays were worth courting. Boystown was one of those areas. And court us Thomas Finnegan did. He trotted out a younger gay brother to publically embrace whenever possible. He dug up some money for a youth program at Gay Horizons. He promised to introduce an anti-discrimination measure if he got into office and then actually did. It failed, but that
wasn
’
t
the point.

Any connection to a bar raid and Bill Maker’s death would be bad for Finnegan’s political ambitions. He didn’t have to be the officer who kicked the actor to death. He could just have been standing nearby. Except, he wasn’t standing nearby, not according to Meek’s journal.

I wrote down the word “REDHEAD.”

Finnegan’s younger brother was a redhead. I remembered that from a color photo on the cover of one of the gay rags. I’d bet anything that before it turned white, Finnegan’s hair
had
also
been
red. We had a murderer running for mayor.

So what
had
Ronald Meek
been
up to? I wondered.
Had
he
been
trying to ruin Finnegan?
Had
he want
ed
to bring him down?
Had
he want
ed
revenge for his lover’s death? Or…I remembered the thing his neighbor had said about Meek moving to the desert and getting a house.

“BLACKMAIL.”

That
was
what Meek
had been
up to. Ronald Meek had gotten tired of being poor. When he saw that Finnegan was running for mayor, he tried to blackmail him. Had he tried and failed once on his own? On his own, Finnegan might have laughed Meek off. It would have been one man’s word against another’s. But if he had another witness. If he had Vernon Taber.

“POLICE CONNECTION.”

Having been on the job, it was likely Finnegan still had strong connections at the CPD. I’d been followed by off-duty policemen, and when I found Vernon Taber, Finnegan hadn’t even bothered to wait for Meek to attempt to blackmail him again. He’d just given the go ahead to get rid of them both. My theory was right. A uniformed police officer must have shown up at each man’s door, been allowed in, and then killed them.

My lunch had arrived. I’d taken a few bites, which only confirmed my suspicion that broccoli and eggs d
id
n’t belong together. I took a twenty out of my pocket and wrapped it around the pen, then tucked it under my plate. I walked out without bothering to get my check. The twenty more than covered it.

Out on Madison and Dearborn, the lunchtime crowd swirled back and forth across the intersection. I crossed over to First Chicago and walked over to their courtyard. In front of the Chagall mosaic, I walked back and forth and smoked half a dozen cigarettes.

I knew what had happened. I’d solved the case. Now, what was I going to do about it?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

After spending the rest of the afternoon at the County Clerk’s office in Daley Center, I didn’t know much more about the eleven other guys picked up in the raid th
a
n I had when I began. Finally, I gave up and took a sweaty, smelly ride home on the El. I wasn’t even sure it mattered about the other guys. I might have just wasted an afternoon.

The question of what to do about Thomas Finnegan was difficult. He was responsible for the murders of three different people to my knowledge, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t have me killed if I got too close. The smart thing to do was to forget the whole thing. But how would I live with myself just letting someone like that go? Not to mention Meek had once saved my ass, and Vernon Taber would be alive if I were a shitty detective, unable to find him. The only decision I was able to come up with was that I should finally talk to Harker about it all. Not an easy task since he was still pissed at me and my big mouth.

When I walked into my living room, Harker and his mother were watching the evening news. Neither turned to look at me, they were so engrossed in the report. I looked over at the television. On screen was a thin young man with brown hair and overly large glasses. His voice was effeminate, and he spelled his name with the letter “i” at the end, Bobbi. He was obviously gay.

My cheeks flushed as I tried to pick up the thread of the report. Bobbi was saying that he’d once lived in the fast lane, but now he just wanted to survive. The anchor came back on and in his well modulated voice said, “The best guess is that some infectious agent is causing…”

I glanced at Harker’s face. It was like stone, as was his mother’s.

The report continued, “…it’s a race against time for those with this terrible disease. How long before they finally have answers, finally have the hope of a cure?”

A commercial came on for the Commodore 64 personal computer, and I focused on it hard. The damn thing looked pretty much like an electric typewriter, and I didn’t get what was so great about having one at home. I’d read something about games, but that didn’t make any sense
,
who wanted to play a game on a type—
?

Mrs. Harker stood up and said, “I go now.”

She looked stunned, like she’
d
just woken from a long, deep sleep. I figured she’d put two and two together and knew exactly what was going on with Harker. I felt bad for her, until she glared at me on her way out of the room. The look made one thing clear. She hated me. More than anything, she hated me.

After she left the room, I turned and looked at Harker. His face was stiff and unreadable. I figured it was going to be a frosty night. I ducked into the bedroom and did my best to read my book about the cat burglar and the failed actor. They were kind of getting to like each other. It almost managed to keep my attention.

Around eight, I plucked up my courage and went out to the living room. Curled up on the sofa, Harker looked aggressively thoughtful. His jaw was so tight I thought he’d break a couple of teeth. He also looked a little green around the gills. All thoughts of our argument went out of my head, and I said, “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine. I’ve had a hangover all day, that’s all.”

“Oh.” I was a little relieved but didn’t think he’d appreciate my saying so. Though it was a couple hours before bedtime, I told him, “I’ll sleep on the sofa. You take the bed.”

“It’s your apartment. If anyone sleeps on the sofa, it should be me. You shouldn’t have slept out here last night. I didn’t ask you to.”

I had no intention of kicking a sick man out of bed every time we had a fight. I knew I could be a shit, but that was taking it too far.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You already apologized. You don’t have to keep doing it.”

“Then what should I do?” I asked.

“Nothing.” Now he finally looked at me, his eyes such a calm, pretty blue. Well, a bloodshot pretty blue. “All you did was tell a friend your problems. That’s not a terrible thing. My being sick affects you. You should be able to talk about it with someone.”

“And you should have privacy if you want it,” I said, not liking that he was relieving me of all responsibility, as though I w
ere
some kind of child, expected to misbehave from time to time.

“Just tell me when you tell people, so I’m not surprised like that again.”

“Okay,” I said. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

He waited, leaving an uncomfortable silence. It took me a moment, but I finally figured out that I was supposed to be telling him everyone I told. As though there might be a long list. “I only told Ross. Who told Brian.”

Harker frowned. I’d just reminded him how easily secrets spread.

“Then let’s find something to eat,” he finally said. I followed him out to the kitchen and watched as he poked around in the refrigerator and brought out some kind of noodle casserole his mother had made. He popped it into the oven and then sat down at the table.

I sat down across from him and said, “I think I know who killed my client and his friend.”

My tone must have tipped him off that there was a problem, because he just said, “Okay.”

“Alderman Finnegan. About twenty years ago he and another police officer beat a gay television actor to death and left him in an alley. Meek and Taber witnessed it
.
I think Meek might have been trying to blackmail Finnegan, but he needed Taber to strengthen his case.”

“And since they’re both dead, now there’s no case,” Harker said, getting ahead of me.

“I have Meek’s journal. If I can find another witness then I might be able to prove this.”

“But that will draw Finnegan’s attention to you.”

“Yes.”

Harker sat quietly for a long time. Finally, I couldn’t stand it, so I said, “You think I should stop what I’m doing, don’t you?”

He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I’ve tried that before. You’re not going to do what I tell you, so why bother?”

I was a little disappointed in that. Half of me wanted him to tell me to stop. Maybe I would have this time.

“Besides. You’re in too deep. This guy kills people who know what he did, and you know. You don’t have a choice, you have to take him down.”

§ § § §

The next morning, I woke up thinking about Veatrice LaShell. While my coffee brewed, I went and got the phone book. Veatrice LaShell wasn’t in it. I drank a pot of coffee waiting for the clock to strike nine. When it did, I called AFTRA. They’d at least have heard of her. Unfortunately, the only information they could give me was her agent’s name, but she was currently unrepresented. If I had money for her—as I claimed to—I could send it to AFTRA, and they would forward it. I didn’t bother to ask if they’d do the same with a note. I didn’t have the patience for that.