Knock Me Off My Feet (19 page)
Whatever those words were, they'd been enough to convince Audie that she owed her mother, big-time. One last guilt trip for the road, apparently.
Quinn sighed, twisting his own mother's
claddagh
ring around his left pinkie finger, thinking, thinking…
"Aside from the phone call, do you know what else really bothers me about this?" Quinn looked up at Kerr and McAffee, thinking out loud.
"I have a feeling you're going to tell us," Kerr said, returning to his chair.
"Yeah. I am." Quinn reached for the files again and gazed at the color postmortem photographs. "She was hit in the face. Not the first time, the second time." He ran his finger along the image of Helen Adams's brutalized cheek.
"First one to the back of the head—she's down. But that's not enough. Then one to the side of the face. Why? Wasn't her purse already on the ground? Why the extra hit?"
"And to the face," Stanny-O added. "Muggers don't usually go for the face."
"Exactly," Quinn said, turning to his partner with appreciation. "It's too personal. There's too much anger there for a random mugging, especially of an older female."
"What are you guys after?" Kerr rolled an unlit cigarette through his fingers like a miniature baton. "You saw the case files. We must have talked to half the city looking for someone with a grudge against that old bat."
Quinn grunted a little. What had Audie said the other day about her fame? "They love Homey Helen. They don't love
me."
This homicide case may very well be about Helen Adams the person, not Helen Adams the public figure or Helen Adams the random
mark.
As he'd wondered many times before, could the same person hate the mother and the daughter?
"But Andrew Adams was at the yacht club all night," Stanny-O said out loud, as if following Quinn's silent reasoning. "And there were about two hundred people to back him up on that, right?" He looked to the other detectives.
"Right," McAffee said. "And everybody else we talked to had an alibi as well, including Malcolm Milton, your girl Autumn, and the business partner, Marjorie Stoddard—about fifty people saw her at a dog obedience class that night."
"Which brings us exactly to slit, like we said." Kerr inserted the unlit cigarette between his lips and let it dangle there as he talked. "Which is exactly what you seem to have on your case, too. Which is why you're grabbing at straws trying to find a connection with her mother's case. But Helen Adams never received threats as far as we found."
"Nope. She didn't," Quinn said. "One of the first things we did was run an FBI database search for similar threats, and there wasn't anything, anywhere."
"DNA?" McAffee asked.
Stanny-O grunted. "Stamps were the peel-off kind. Water was used to seal the envelopes, not saliva. We got nothing."
"Fingerprints?" Kerr asked.
"Nothing we can't explain."
They all turned their heads toward the tapping sound on the glass wall of the conference room, to see Commander Barry Connelly pointing at Quinn, then crooking his finger. Quinn excused himself.
"Hey, Quinn?" Kerr called to him before he reached the door. "Sorry we couldn't be of more help on this."
"Yeah. Me, too."
* * *
Quinn had barely opened the door before Connelly started talking. "We got a little problem."
As they walked together through the squad room, Quinn released a sigh of resignation. He'd been expecting this—Timmy Burke had no doubt made those phone calls he'd mentioned and slimed up the gears of
Chicago
politics. But Quinn knew Commander Connelly and knew he didn't bend over for anyone, not even vice mayors.
"Have a seat." The commander shut his office door and walked around his desk, then locked his ice-blue eyes on Quinn's. "Damn it, Stacey. What did you have to go piss off Timmy Burke for?"
"I told you. He's a suspect in the Homey Helen threats."
"Says who?"
"Says me."
Connelly nodded slowly and eased down into his chair. "And this is based on hard evidence, I'm assuming."
"Circumstantial at the moment. A gut feeling."
Connelly began shaking his head. "Your gut can't be trusted when it comes to Burke, and you know it, boy-o. I'm telling you to leave the good vice mayor alone or life's going to get real unpleasant for you, real quick."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'll have to yank you off the case and run all over town kissing ass trying to keep you working out of my station house. And you know how downright disagreeable I get when I have to kiss ass."
Quinn smiled at Connelly. He knew that. Not only was Barry Connelly commander at District 18, he was also Quinn's commander in the Chicago Garda Pipe and Drum Band, one of Jamie's oldest and dearest friends, and Quinn's godfather.
"Don't worry about Timmy Burke," Quinn said, waving his hand dismissively and standing.
"I'm not worried about him, you stubborn Mick. I'm worried about you, so sit down while I'm talking to you."
Quinn stopped in his tracks to see Connelly scowling at him beneath bushy white eyebrows. He obeyed orders and sat.
"Now listen up, Stacey. You do a damn fine job, but you're walking a fine line here, and you need to watch your back."
Quinn listened quietly.
"Burke's been saying things. He says you're sleeping with Miss Adams, and—"
Quinn's protest didn't even make it out before Connelly stopped him with a big outstretched palm and a frown. "And if you are, you're off the case. Now you can talk."
"He's lying, as usual. I'm not sleeping with her."
Connelly's eyes narrowed above flushed cheeks.
"But it's not because of lack of trying on my part."
The commander snorted with laughter. "Yeah, well, keep me posted if the lovely lady succumbs to your charms and all, 'cause then I'll have to take you off the case. You know I wouldn't care except that with this being a high-profile victim and with Tim Burke involved—Christ Almighty, Stacey—there can't be
a hint of
conflict
of
interest
anywhere. Burke's making a hell of a lot of noise. Are we understanding each other?"
"Sure."
"Now." Connelly squeezed the bridge of his nose between a thumb and index finger. "What the hell are you and the Chocolate Moose doing with this investigation? You two usually make quick work of these celebrity chasers. I've asked you to focus on the case almost exclusively, but it's been weeks. What's the holdup?"
"We've narrowed the field," Quinn said, leaning forward. "As far as motive and opportunity go, Burke looks like the best bet right now, along with Miss Adams's brother."
Connelly's eyes mellowed a bit and he leaned back in his chair. "OK. You get exactly one minute to tell me about Burke. Let's start with motive."
"Your standard jilted lover," Quinn said. "It's been over a year since they dated, but he calls her several times a week, sends flowers, follows her to her book signings, and comes to her apartment uninvited. He told me he's in love with her and she just needs some convincing, but Miss Adams thinks Timmy is scum."
Connelly closed his eyes. "And you're helping her reach that conclusion?"
"I just filled in some holes for her. She's smart. She figured that one out all on her own, Commander."
"And you're sure about the calls and the flowers and the visits?"
"Yep. I got the florist records this morning—forty-two deliveries since they broke up last spring. I've seen the phone records from her office, and the ones from her home are coming this afternoon. He's on the security video from her building, right there pounding on her door. So it's not like I'm up the guy's butt for no reason—he's a suspect. A real suspect. I'm just doing my job."
"But nothing else on him?"
"No. No prints. No match from his work printer. He claims he doesn't have a printer at home and I don't think we've got enough for a search warrant yet, unfortunately."
"You're right. Now tell me about the brother."
Quinn rubbed his chin. "Andrew Adams is a thirty-something slacker who's lost a shitload of the family fortune to three ex-wives and a string of bad day trades. He's got debts, but he's not desperate. Lives alone. Drinks too much. No drugs except for a juvy marijuana bust. And no gambling that we can see."
"You've lost me, Stace. I don't see a motive here."
Quinn laughed bitterly. "Yeah, well, we're still working on that. See, the way the original Homey Helen left it, if Audie—Miss Adams—decides to quit the column, Drew gets first dibs on it. If he doesn't want the job, they can sell the rights and split the profit. Right now, Homey Helen Enterprises looks like it's worth about twenty-four million dollars."
"That would pay for a hell of a lot of day trades."
"And maybe another wife or two." Quinn smiled. "But here's the problem with that motive: He and his sister aren't close, but he knows she doesn't even like the column and would jump for joy to give it to him or sell it. So why threaten her? Plus, his computer doesn't match and his prints aren't on anything. And when we interviewed him, I didn't get any feeling he was a particularly bad guy—just a rich jerk."
"So you've got close to nothing."
"The letters are coming more often, and our guy says he's ready to move. We've got Miss Adams covered twenty-four/seven. It won't be long."
Commander Connelly grunted. "Like I told you from the beginning, the last thing the City of
Chicago
wants is two Homey Helens dying under our watch. The big shots at the
Banner
got wind of this and they're breathing down the mayor's neck. I've set you two loose and I expect you to take care of it."
"I understand."
"Any connections with her mother's case?"
Quinn shrugged. "Again, Burke is a possibility. Apparently Helen Adams didn't like the idea of a Catholic boy dating her daughter. But Tim was never interviewed in connection with her death."
Both Quinn and Connelly arched their eyebrows and stared at each other. "That's not much," Connelly said.
"But it's something, and it's more than what we've got on the brother, or anyone else for that matter."
Connelly frowned.
"Stan and I are going to keep looking for connections."
Connelly nodded. "Just don't go bothering Timmy Burke again without giving me a heads-up, understand?"
"Got it."
"And keep your drawers on."
"Yes, sir."
"And see you at practice tonight."
"I'll be there."
* * *
In the evenings after Mrs. Splawinski caught the El for home, Drew thought it got far too quiet in the
Not that he missed his wife—any of them, for that matter. In fact, he recalled quite well that while they were with him, he simply couldn't wait for them to leave.
Drew knew he was funny that way—he didn't necessarily like being alone, but he didn't know how to deal with people who claimed they cared for him, even loved him.
Well, Lord, with his childhood it was no wonder. His sister was the same way, God love her.
Drew made himself another drink, this time with double lime. He needed the vitamin C. He knew a man could not live on Tanqueray and tonic water alone, though he'd certainly been giving it his best college try.
He took the drink to the window and stared out.
He hoped to God that Audie had rebounded from the momentary loss of sanity that made her throw herself at that
Chicago
cop. Drew shuddered, remembering them down there on the dock under the lights, going at each other like hormonal eighth-graders.
How vile.
But that was several days ago, and he knew all too well that an Adams love affair could hit the wall and burst into flame in that amount of time.
His guess was that Audie had already been scared off by the street thug's ardor and had demanded another detective on the case. That would be like her.
Drew turned away from the windows and returned to the computer desk. He placed the drink near the mouse pad, within easy reach.
He had no idea why he'd started writing these diatribes. Perhaps it was just the right time. Perhaps he simply couldn't keep all the garbage inside anymore.
Sometimes he surprised himself with the quality of his writing. He knew he had a wicked sense of humor—he could bring the yacht clubbers to tears with his cutting commentary on modern life and human foibles. In fact, his sense of humor was perhaps his only redeeming personality trait. Thank God he was finally doing something constructive with his talents.
Drew took a nice long drink and created a new document file on the computer screen.
The most important thing to keep in mind was that
she
would eventually read this, and it had to be so good that it would shock her, devastate her, terrify her. God, he hated her.