A Time for Secrets (25 page)

“It won’t be long,” she said. “Sam’s office is only three blocks away. So, how long have you two known each other?”

Christian was about to answer, but I cut him off
.
“This young man is a reporter. He’s writing a story about Alderman Finnegan.”

He stuck out his hand and said, “Christian Baylor.” The two of them awkwardly met in the space between the two giant sofas and shook hands.

“Am I to assume yours is a professional relationship, or are you mixing business with pleasure?”

“It’s bus—” I started.

Christian interrupted me with, “You don’t know Bert?”

“Bert? Who’s Bert?”

“My lover,” I said.

“Ah, and here I thought you were a lone wolf.”

“Bert’s a retired police officer,” Christian said. I was glad Harker wasn’t there. The word ‘retired’ would have upset him. I’m sure he considered himself on temporary disability. “He worked the Bughouse Slasher case. He’s still working it actually.”

I wanted to slap him. Luckily for him, Sugar
said
, “I read about the Bughouse Slasher. Very creepy.”

And then Christian was off. He talked about the Slasher for the next five minutes, rattling off facts as though he were giving a book report. Finally Gretchen, a heavyset woman in a casual shell and slacks
,
walked into the room and said lunch was served. I wasn’t particularly hungry. My stomach was still queasy with donuts. I assumed Sugar might be hungry though, so I followed them into the dining room, which was lovely and could seat about fourteen. Sugar liked to keep things intimate.

Gretchen had put out enough food for about twelve. It was a lot of food for a single woman to have lying around
,
but then Sugar was the kind of woman who would be embarrassed not to be able to offer lunch to a bevy of diplomats or a baseball team
,
should either unexpectedly drop by.

Sugar said, “Dig in boys,” just as the doorbell rang. She went to answer it.

Christian looked at me and asked, “Why doesn’t that Gretchen lady answer the door?”

“I think
it
amuses Sugar to do it. It probably shocks the neighbors.”

Christian made himself a sandwich. I decided to wait.

My stomach was in too tight a knot to put anything in there.

After a few minutes, Sam McCorkle stood in the dining room. Up close, he was even better looking th
a
n I remembered. His was an easy charm that barely concealed something else more exciting. Playfulness or menace, I couldn’t tell which. Either way Sugar had excellent taste.

She introduced us and then said, “Nick would like to see the mayor about Alderman Finnegan.”

I was about to explain further, when Christian jumped in and said, “I’ve written a story about the things Nick discovered.” He offered the story to McCorkle. Sugar’s beau glanced at the lead and asked, “Could I have a few minutes with this?”

“You can go into the library if you like,” Sugar suggested. McCorkle walked out of the room. I didn’t have a clue where the library was, but he seemed to.

Then we waited. Christian ate his sandwich. I made one but didn’t eat it. Sugar munched on a pickle and a carrot. We hovered by the dining table but didn’t sit, even though Sugar suggested it twice. From where I stood, I could see the phone in the living room that Sugar had used. After a while, one of the plastic lights went on. I had a bad feeling in my stomach about it, but couldn’t think of a reason why. Gretchen could be making a call, or McCorkle could be calling his office to tell them he’d be back late. He could even be calling his wife and making an excuse that would buy him a night with Sugar. The light went out, and I tried a bite of my sandwich. It didn’t sit well.

Ten glacially long minutes later, McCorkle came into the dining room and asked, “Is this being published
?
”

“The
Daily Herald
refused,” Christian said.

“Finnegan is well connected,” he conceded.

“Can you help us get it published somewhere else?” Christian asked, and that rankled me. I wasn’t there to advance his career.

“That may be a waste of time,” I interrupted. If
Finnegan
was that powerful at the
Daily Herald
, he could likely kill the story anywhere we placed it. “I’d like to show this to the mayor and see if she’ll direct the CPD to reopen the case.”

“Who are you again?” McCorkle asked me.

“I’m the guy who got shot at tracking this down.”

He nodded as though that w
ere
a common event. “The mayor can’t be involved in this. If she even discussed this with the chief of police it could be seen as political trickery.”

I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. “Tell me you can do something with this. The man’s a murderer. He can’t just get away with it.”

“It’s a very old case, and you have no evidence to connect him to the two new murders.”

The doorbell rang again, and Sugar went to answer it.

“So, that’s it? You’re not going to do anything with it?”

“Oh no. I’ll use it,” he said calmly.

I asked “How?” but he wasn’t inclined to answer. I thought he was being a stubborn prick, but then Sugar walked back into the room followed by Thomas Finnegan.

McCorkle greeted him with a hearty handshake, like an old friend. The sick feeling in my stomach was coming on strong, and I worried about what side McCorkle was really on. Had I just screwed up royally? I wondered. Finnegan, though, was wary; he’d read the room and didn’t like what he found.

“Why don’t we sit down,” Sugar said. “Mr. Finnegan, would you like a sandwich?”

Ignoring her, he asked, “What is this about?”

I wouldn’t have minded knowing myself. McCorkle simply placed the story Christian had written into Finnegan’s hand. He glanced at it and said, “Yes, I know all about this. The young man called me for a quote.”

Christian perked up as though he was about to be introduced, but McCorkle continued, “And then you made sure it wasn’t published.”

“They wisely chose to avoid a libel suit.”

“There’s nothing libelous in that story,” I said.

“There isn’t,” McCorkle agreed.

“I think that’s for lawyers to decide.”

The room was silent a moment, then McCorkle said, “You’re gonna drop out of the mayoral race, Tom.”

“No, I’m not.”

“This will all come out if you don’t.”

“People already think the mayor’s a vindictive bitch. What will they think after she makes a slew of false accusations?”

“Maybe she won’t make them. Maybe the State’s Attorney will.”

Finnegan blanched. “No, Richie supports me…”

Something had shifted. I’d thought McCorkle supported the mayor, but obviously he didn’t. He’d switched sides. Apparently, Richie Daley did plan to run.

“You’re leaving the race, Tom. It’s over.”

My blood pressure shot up as I realized what was happening. “Wait a minute, are you saying nothing will happen if he just quits the mayoral race? He’s murdered three people. He belongs in prison.”

McCorkle didn’t answer me.

“Who are you?” I demanded. “You’re in real estate. How is it you get to decide who the next mayor is?”

McCorkle smiled at me and said, “I get to decide because you made it possible.”

I stopped breathing. I
had
made it possible. Somehow, all my best intentions had come to this. Three murders ending in backroom politics. Business as usual, Chicago style. I was disgusted with myself.

“Do we have a deal, Tom?” McCorkle asked.

“What are you getting out of this? I’ll match it. I’ll double it. You want permits? I’ll get you permits. Tax breaks? Money? I’ll make it happen,” Finnegan scrambled. “What about the Housing Authority? You could run that. You want to run that? You’d be good at it. Might even do some good. I mean, if that’s what you wanted. Either way…the connections alone would be worth millions. You could do good and make money. Who can beat that?”

McCorkle kept quiet.

“Those men. Blackmailers. Perverts. They’re nothing compared to men like us. This shouldn’t happen because of them. They’re nothing. Nothing at all.” Finnegan’s rheumy eyes fluttered nervously, and his lip quivered. “I can beat her, Sam. I can, and then I can get you anything want. Anything. The town is yours. There has to be something—”

“Do you want to end up in prison?” McCorkle asked. “Or do you want to drop out of the race?”

I was routing for Finnegan to brazen it out, to refuse the deal and end up in prison. Instead, he whispered, “All right. All right, yes.”

And then it was over. Outside Sugar’s house, I lit a cigarette. Christian looked like he might start to bawl like a little baby. He’d just watched his career as an ace reporter disappear before his eyes.

“I need to find a survival job,” he said, seeming a bit shell-shocked.

I shrugged. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to you this year, you’re in good shape.”

“What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“Go back to work. I have other clients, you know.”

He looked at me like he didn’t believe me, and he shouldn’t have. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to leave this alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I spent the afternoon sitting in my car outside Town Hall station. If anyone had been paying attention, they’d have noticed me pumping dimes into the meters as I parked and re-parked my little green Nova trying to get a better vantage point. It was too hot to keep the windows closed, so every cigarette I smoked had a delicious overlay of car exhaust and city soot. Finally, around four, I saw the man I’d been waiting for. Tall, slack-bellied and crew cut, he slunk along the sidewalk heading toward the station. I jumped out of my car and nearly got myself killed jaywalking.

“Lutz!” I called out.

He turned around and stared at me.

“What the fuck you want?”

“I want to buy you a drink.”

“Thanks, but I ain’t that way.”

I smiled at that, which made him shift on the sidewalk. “Who knows what way you’ll be after twenty, thirty years in prison.”

“In your dreams, faggot.”

He started to walk away.

“Finnegan made a deal,” I said.

That stopped him. He stared curiously.

“How about that drink?” I asked.

Quietly, he followed me down to the Kit Kat Klub on the corner of Halsted and Waveland. It was a linoleum-floored corner bar with chrome-legged stools and a gold-veined mirror on one wall. Three or four day-drinkers sat around nursing regrets and lost hopes. I ordered my usual scotch while Lutz had an Irish whiskey. We sat in a booth that needed to be wiped down.

“What kind of deal did Finnegan make?” he asked. The words having been on the tip of his tongue for a good five minutes.

“He’s dropping out of the mayor’s race.”

Anger flashed across his face. Obviously, he’d been promised a cushy patronage job when Finnegan won, presumably something in the six figure range with almost nothing to do. It took a moment, but he got control of himself and said, “That doesn’t have much to do with me. I mean, I would have voted for the guy. That’s about it.”

I smiled.

“A few days after he drops out he’s going to turn you and your friend Brennan in for the murders of Ronald Meek and Vernon Taber.”

“Bullshit!”

“The way the story will go is, you and Brennan, both strong supporters of his, cooked up a scheme to protect him all on your own. When he found out, he didn’t have a choice but to leave the race and turn you in.”

“Nice try, jackass. Finnegan wouldn’t do that, he’d have to admit to killing that fag actor. He’d never do that.”

“Finnegan won’t have to admit anything except that he knew his partner Marty Straub killed Bill Maker. All he did was keep his mouth shut, and for that he’ll be mighty sorry.”

“I don’t believe it, not for a minute.”

“So, don’t.”

“Why would you tell me? We’re not exactly friends.”

“You’re right. I think you’re a piece of shit, but I think Finnegan’s a bigger piece of shit, and he thinks he’s going to get away with murder. Three murders. I don’t want to see that happen.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? He’s already made a deal, right?” Sweat had broken out on his forehead.

“It’s a backroom deal with the mayor’s people. There’s still time for you to go to Internal Affairs.”

“You’re trying to trick me into going state’s evidence? Is that your little plan?”

“That’s my plan, yes, but it’s not a trick. Wait until Finnegan drops out of the mayor’s race. Why would he do that if I hadn’t given my information to the right people? Once he quits you’ve got a week, tops.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then said, “Fuck you, faggot,” and walked out of the bar.

Three days later, Thomas Finnegan dropped out of the mayoral race for personal reasons. The article in the
Daily Herald
hinted that his wife had little interest in being the first lady of Chicago, which
,
given my brief meeting with her, may have actually been true. I waited to see if the seed I’d planted with Lutz would bear fruit. There were a dozen ways it could go wrong. Lutz might have gone to Finnegan and talked the whole thing out. I doubted it, though. Even if they did talk, how could Lutz believe the politician? On the other hand, Lutz might go to the wrong person in CPD Internal Affairs. Finnegan would still have allies in the department. But without the ability to pay people off with patronage, was it worth the risk not to listen to Lutz’s confession? Of course, the most nerve-wracking possibility was that Lutz would tip his hand and end up dead before he could confess. That kept me awake a couple nights.

A few days after that, in time for their Sunday edition, the
Daily Herald
broke the story. Their city hall reporter took it and made it seem like he’d done some real investigative reporting, instead of just sitting in the pressroom, even implying that he’d been instrumental in getting Lutz to confess. I kind of enjoyed that. Christian didn’t. As far as he was concerned, the article was one step above plagiarism. Which it pretty much was. In his confession, Lutz implicated Officers Brennan, Wilson, and four others, including a young patrol officer named Kyle Wesley who’d done the actual murders. Strangely, he seemed one of the least important players in the whole thing.