No Show of Remorse (26 page)

*   *   *

I
SUPPOSE
I
SHOULD HAVE
gone to bed and seen what the morning would bring. That was Casey's suggestion. But I didn't. I'd had enough of Zorro's sad, dying face looking up at me, every time I closed my eyes.

I drove too fast and I don't know what I thought about while I was driving. I might not even have remembered to park the Buick far from my destination and walk the rest of the way, except that I pulled off Lake Shore Drive and onto the narrow, crowded streets of Lincoln Park and realized at once that I probably couldn't find a spot near Maura Flanagan's house if I wanted to. I finally parked on a dark street that said
Permit Parking Only,
and had to walk a long way.

With just two short blocks to go, I turned the corner onto Flanagan's street—and stopped in my tracks. My heart stopped beating and for an instant I couldn't get my legs to move. When they did start working again, I turned and retraced my steps, forcing myself not to run. Just an easy, natural, rapid pace, all the way back to the car. I got into the passenger seat and slid off my jacket and the shoulder holster and got back out. I put the jacket on and stowed the Beretta in the trunk, then headed back to Maura Flanagan's.

I'd been too far away to tell just where the action was centered, so all those flashing blue lights and squad cars, and the people milling around, didn't have to mean it was Flanagan's house where something bad had happened. But her address was an even number, so it was on the west side of the street—and the cops were keeping the curious on the east side.

Still, it didn't have to be Flanagan's house. Maybe her next-door neighbor came home drunk and beat the shit out of his wife—surely not unheard of in upscale Lincoln Park. Or maybe someone robbed someone at gunpoint; or maybe they were having a midweek, midnight block party and that's why the street was blocked off.

It didn't
have
to be Flanagan's house.

CHAPTER

41

“I
T'S THAT JUDGE'S HOUSE
,” the man said.

We were standing on the sidewalk at the south end of Maura Flanagan's block, near the corner. The man nodded and pointed across the street and several houses to the north. “That one,” he said. He was a small, dark man with an Indian accent … or Pakistani, maybe. He could have been the owner of the two-million-dollar brownstone behind us, or the driver of the cab parked illegally just around the corner. But it was cold out and he wore a white dress shirt and no jacket, so I guessed homeowner. I'm a detective.

“The female,” he added. “Judge Flanagan, I think, yes?”

“It's Justice,” I said.

He peered up at me. “You mean what happened? It is justice?”

“No. I mean it's not
Judge
Flanagan. It's
Justice
Flanagan.”

“Ah.” He nodded and pursed his lips as though I'd said something terribly wise.

A couple of cop cars—a blue-and-white and a tan unmarked—backed down the street our way, turned around in the intersection, and drove off. People were wandering away. The action was dying down.

“What happened?” I asked.

“That I do not know,” he said. “But she is dead. They—”

“What? You don't know that!” The words came out too loud and he stared at me and stepped backwards. “I mean,” I said, struggling to control my voice, “did you see her?”

“No. They came out of the house with one of those bags with a zipper, like one sees on TV programs.”

“So you don't
know,
for God's sake.”

“Word spread through the crowd that a policeman said it was her. That's how—” He stopped. I must have had a kill-the-messenger look on my face, because he backed away again, moving inside the iron gate toward the brownstone. “It is cold,” he said, looking past my shoulder as though afraid to look directly at me. “I must go.” He turned and hurried up the steps.

“Hey,” I said, “I'm sorry. Can you—”

“I must go.” On the porch landing he turned, but still kept looking past me.

I spun around. “Damn,” I said.

They were two uniformed cops; both black, both with their right hands resting lightly on their holstered weapons. The taller one leaned toward me a little. “Malachai Foley?” he asked.

“Mala-
key,
” I said. “Key, key, KEY! Dammit.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Investigator Brasher would like to talk to you, sir.”

“Yeah? Tell him to have his people call my people.” But it was no use. They just stood there, waiting for me to move. “Who's Brasher, anyway? Where is he?”

The cop spread his arms as though indicating the entire block. “Violent Crimes Division, sir. He's in charge of the scene. He's in that car.” He pointed down the east-west street toward the tan unmarked car that I thought had driven away. The blue-and-white was parked in front of it. “He asked us to bring you to him, if it was okay with you.”

“And if it's not okay with me?”

“He said to bring you anyway.”

*   *   *

B
RASHER WAS A BIG MAN
and had a big, homely, intelligent-looking face. He sat in the back seat of the detectives' car on the left side, behind the driver—who was also in plainclothes—and I sat on the right. That was after the taller uniformed officer patted me down, of course, and passed my wallet to Brasher.

He went through everything in the wallet, and handed it back to me. “You carry a lot of cash,” he said.

“I'm a cash-and-carry sort of guy,” I said. “No credit cards.”

“I noticed.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Nope.”

“Then why the search of my body and possessions?”

“Obviously consensual,” he said. “I didn't hear any objection.”

“Is that it?” I said, and opened the door beside me.

“How well did you know Justice Maura Flanagan?”

I closed the door. “How well
did
I know her?”

“That was my question.”

“Is she dead?”

“How well did you know her?”

“I hardly knew her at all. She called me earlier tonight. Left a message on my machine asking me to come and see her. I called back and said I would.”

“Really?” His surprise was phony. They'd have listened to her messages. “And what did you talk about?”

“I left a message on her machine, said I'd be there.”

“What did you talk about,” he said, “
after
you got there?”

“I didn't get there. I was on my way when two large uniformed police officers grabbed me at gunpoint, threw me up against the side of a car, and searched my body in an intrusive, embarrassing way. They took my wallet, which they gave to a man in civilian clothes, who pawed through it before he gave it back to me. I was kept in custody with no explanation.” I stopped. “Just kidding,” I said. “Why the interrogation?”

“It's not an interrogation; it's an interview. You're not a suspect; you're a witness. You're not in custody; you're cooperating with a police investigation.”

“What was I a witness to?”

“You were one of the last people,” he said, “to see the victim alive.”

“So she
is
dead.”

“Very.”

“You said ‘victim.' What happened to her?”

“Her heart stopped beating,” he said.

“Not funny,” I said. “What makes you think—”

There was a rap on the front passenger window. The door opened and a man leaned in and said, “Excuse me.” It was Theodosian. “Could I talk to you for a minute, Brasher?” he asked.

*   *   *

H
ALF AN HOUR LATER
I was sitting in a back booth at an all-night restaurant just south of Lincoln Park, on Clark Street. Theodosian sat across from me and we were both drinking coffee. The waitress returned with a burger and a piece of lemon meringue pie for me, nothing for him. I wasn't that hungry, but I wanted something to do and say, while I figured out how open I wanted to be with Theodosian. The waitress refilled both our coffees, said to holler if we needed anything, and left.

“Where's your partner?” I asked.

“Furlough.”

“Really,” I said. “He was at Lonnie Bright's, you know, after the shooting. He's mentioned in a report.”

“I don't remember that, but I'm not surprised. ICOP was new. It was his baby and he was all over the West Side that year, trying to show the brass he was accomplishing something. Actually, most people thought he was a pain in the ass.”

“And he's on furlough now?”

“That's what Chicago cops call it. I don't know about the state guys. Maybe they call it vacation. I mean, he didn't even tell me he was gonna be gone.” He stirred some sugar into his coffee. “Frick the prick.”

“For how long?”

“I don't know. A week, I think.”

“He picked an interesting time to take off,” I said.

“What's that mean?”

“Nothing, except … you know … he missed Flanagan's murder.”

“That's not his jurisdiction. Anyway, it's by order of his commanding officer. Otherwise the sonovabitch never
would
take time off. It's a break for me, I tell ya. Frick practically invented the word ‘workaholic.'”

“I don't see you taking it easy,” I said, and bit into my burger. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”

“It's only temporary. Personally, I don't think you're the murdering type. But Brasher has a job to do. He and I go back a ways, and I told him I needed to talk to you, bad, about something else that couldn't wait. I said I'd transport you to Area Three myself. He's got plenty to do, anyway.” He sipped some of his coffee. “What I want to know is how does Flanagan fit into your situation?”

“She doesn't. Not as far as I know. She's one of the justices who'll decide my case, but otherwise…” I shrugged and spread my hands to show my bewilderment. Mustard dripped to the table from the half-eaten burger in my right hand. “Oops.”

“And nothing else, huh?” He didn't seem to believe me. Maybe my obfuscation skills were slipping. “Let's see,” he went on, “first someone shoves a note with a dismembered spider through your slot with your mail and threatens to pull off
your
limbs, too; then that little friend of yours gets the living shit kicked out of him, carrying a business card that seems to implicate you; and now a supreme court justice gets killed and the dick on the scene tells me there's a message on her machine saying you're on your way. Am I reading too much into it, or is it all coincidental?”

I shrugged. “I think that note on the business card in Yogi's pocket was another warning to me. Flanagan, though, is different. If there's a pattern, I don't see it.”

“Why'd she call you up then, ask you to come and see her?”

“Brasher tell you that, too?”

“He said that's what you told him.”

“Right.” I finished off the burger and pulled the pie closer. “But my answer to your question is still the same,” I said. “The connection I know of is that Flanagan's on … she
was
on … the supreme court. She called me and I might have found out something else, but I was just getting to her place when I saw all the activity. Then Brasher had me picked up. That's it.”

Theodosian drank the last of his coffee. “I don't know.” He shook his head. “I don't think Brasher's gonna believe your story.”

“Why?” I said.

“Do you know what a
fake book
is?”

“What?”

“A fake book. Do you?”

“Sure. Musicians—especially piano players—use them. They're books with the music—and sometimes the words—for pop tunes, old standards. Usually hundreds of tunes in one book. They print the melody only, and above that the chords, so you can read the melody and
fake,
or improvise, the arrangement from the chords. I've got half a dozen of 'em. Otherwise, I'd have to memorize a thousand—” I stopped. “So what's that got to do with anything?”

“Brasher'll go after my ass if he learns I told you, but he said they found a music book on a piano in Flanagan's place. He said it's called
Columbia's Colossal Fake Book.
”

“Sure, I've got a copy of that one. I used to use it all—”

“This one's a beat-up copy, according to Brasher. Cover's half torn off.” Theodosian stood up and dropped a couple of dollars on the table. “You didn't hear it here, okay? But this one's got
your
name written up in the corner of page one.”

CHAPTER

42

R
ENATA
C
ARROWAY DID HER USUAL TAKE-CHARGE
lawyer thing. She met me at Area Three Headquarters, told me to keep my mouth shut, and demanded to know from Brasher whether I was a suspect. When Brasher waffled, she told him I was exercising my right to remain silent.

She didn't tell Brasher we knew about the fake book on the piano because he'd know I must have gotten that from Theodosian. She insisted, though, that he tell us whether they had anything that actually put me on the scene. He refused to say, and she glared at him through her glasses and dared him to lock me up on whatever evidence they had—which I happened to think was a bit rash. But it worked and I was out of there by two
A.M
., no charges filed.

We left in Renata's car and, driving back to mine, I told her the fake book could have been taken when my house was broken into. “Or maybe it was in the pile of music I always leave at Miz Becky's.”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“Besides, would I kill her and forget to erase my message off her machine?”