Random Victim (2 page)

“That’s correct,” Leal answered.

“And did you happen to see Mr. LeRigg during this time?”

“Yes, he fled in his vehicle as soon as the gunfire started,” Leal said. “Officer DeWayne and the others administered to Officer
Hilton and myself. LeRigg got away.”

“And Mr. LeRigg was subsequently picked up on a warrant?”

“Yes,” Leal said.
And he came up with some bullshit about
his car being stolen by two dudes.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Sharon said. She turned to the arena of spectators. “Are there any questions?”

A middle-aged white guy in the third row raised his hand. A solitary one, and Leal figured the guy had probably been there
for the past three weeks thinking he was hot shit.

“Why weren’t there additional officers on the scene to arrest him?” the guy asked. His voice had an almost condescending twang
to it. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Leal thought. Because, asshole, we never have enough fucking people or time
or money…

“Well, sir,” Leal said, clearing his throat and speaking as slowly as he could. “We were in the process of building a case
and hadn’t planned to make an arrest at this time.”

“How long did you work on this particular investigation?” a woman asked from the second row.

“From the initial contact with our informant, it was approximately three months, ma’am.”

“Why do you think Mr. LeRigg had the gunmen with him?” It was the son of a bitch in the third row again, and Leal mentally
imagined going up to the seat and pimp-slapping the smug bastard.

“Oftentimes, when dealing with situations such as these,” Leal paused to wring any condescension out of his voice, “when dealing
with individuals who are trafficking illegal drugs, they may feel that there’s an opportunity to keep the money and their
product. We call it, in the vernacular of the street, a rip-off.” He looked directly at the man now, keeping his expression
totally neutral. He noticed Sharon staring at him. Man, she looks nervous, he thought. Probably worried I’m gonna blow up
any second. That brought the trace of a smile to his lips.

After a few more clarifications, Leal was excused. He took his seat back in the anteroom and waited. He reached in his shirt
pocket and pulled out some gum, his latest passion since he’d quit smoking. Unwrapping the gum, he couldn’t believe how dry
his mouth was.

Christ, he thought. A little bullshit session like this, and I’m a candidate for the funny farm. Better get it together before
I hit the street again.

He found himself wishing he had a cigarette, despite not having smoked for over five and a half months, and was tempted to
try and bum one from one of the other coppers sitting there. But he pushed the thought from his mind, knowing that he couldn’t
afford to smoke again. The bullet had ripped through the lower part of his lung on the left side. If Johnny DeWayne hadn’t
put that laminated card over the bubbling wound as it sucked in air…

But as Leal chomped on the gum the desire for nicotine began to fade, and he reflected on how good it felt to be alive. After
three months of therapy, swimming every day at the YMCA, and drinking only three cups of coffee a day, he felt and looked
better than he had in years. His animosity toward the civilians who had asked the inane questions in the grand jury even began
to diminish.

I gotta stop hating everybody, he thought. Loosen up. But if only I could stop seeing Bobby’s face when I have to talk about
it…

Sharon Devain came out of the doorway and smiled at him.

“You’ve got a true bill, Sergeant,” she said. “Number seven-oh-six.” Stepping all the way out, she closed the door behind
her. Leal rose to his feet. Sharon began walking toward the main office area, talking over her shoulder. “They only had a
few questions about why LeRigg was picked up on a warrant instead of being arrested on the spot. I guess they’ve been watching
too much TV.”

Leal smiled and followed her.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Sure,” Leal said, appreciating the chance to talk with her some more.

They came to a small corner of offices down the hall. The walls, which were just tall drywall dividers, were painted a putrid
shade of yellow and covered with bulletin boards. On one wall, near a section of desks, the boards had rows of cut-off neckties,
each tacked above a card bearing a state’s attorney’s name. The cards also had an offense, a date, and a verdict. Printed
on the one with Sharon’s name was
Aggravated Battery,
along with a
Guilty
verdict, but instead of a necktie, the wispy nylon leg of pantyhose hung there.

“It’s an old custom here,” she said, nodding at the oddly decorated wall as she picked up a pot from under an electric coffeemaker.
“Our first wins in a felony jury trial.” She poured the hot liquid into two Styrofoam cups. “Cream? Sugar?”

Leal shook his head. “Black’s fine, thanks.”

He watched her load hers with sugar and creamer, then swirl a plastic stirrer around. She brought the cup to her lips and
took a solid, but dainty sip. “I think it went pretty well in there,” she said.

“You mean because I didn’t blow up?” he said, grinning.

Sharon laughed. “Well, I must confess, I was wondering what the man was going to be like who took old Dark Gable down a peg.”

Leal feigned a grimace. “Isn’t there anybody in the whole court system who hasn’t heard that story?” He liked the way she
laughed. It was both musical and hearty at the same time.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with that man many times when I was out in the Sixth District,” she said. “Don’t think that I didn’t think
about dissing him.” She smiled. “That’s why this assignment here at the grand jury was so nice. I didn’t have to deal with
any judges or anything, for the most part.”

“Sounds great,” he said. He brought the coffee to his lips as he assessed her some more. No wedding or engagement rings, he
noticed. I wonder what the chances of her going out with me are?

“But this is my last day here, though,” she said, taking another sip and looking at him over the rim of the cup. “I’m going
to be working out of five in Felony Review.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s different,” she said. “You have to stay on call for twenty-four hours, and go out in the field to interview suspects
and review cases. I even had to buy a new car in anticipation of getting beeped in the middle of the night.” She smiled.

I’d like to beep you in the middle of the night, Leal thought. But he said, “Well, I have to get going.” Mentally he danced
with the question of asking for her phone number. Oh, hell, she’s a lawyer, for Christ’s sake, he thought. Lawyers and cops
don’t mix. He took a final swig of his coffee and dropped the cup in the wastebasket. “I’m supposed to report to headquarters
for reassignment.”

“Oh, you’re getting reassigned, too, huh? Where to?”

“Don’t know yet,” he said. “Back to uniform probably.”

“Oh yeah? So, is that good?”

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well,” Sharon said, reaching out and shaking hands with him. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Leal said, feeling the squeeze of her hand, and wondering if their paths would cross again.

CHAPTER THREE

Return to Mecca

As Leal walked out of the Criminal Courts building and descended the pebbled series of cement steps he marveled at how nice
the day had turned out. The bright sunshine he’d seen through the sixth floor windows of the grand jury room had burned off
the low hanging clouds that had darkened the sky as he’d driven in earlier. Scattered groups of people milled about on the
various flattened sections and stairs. A group of blacks, their hats all cocked the same way to signify gang unity, sat impassively
on the cement bench. There seemed to be a constant stream of coppers going in and out.

I wonder how many people we’ll indict today, Leal thought as he stopped to buy a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the “meat wagon”
parked in front by the curb. The Dominican vendor always did a bang-up business there and Leal chatted with him in Spanish
for a moment before moving across California Avenue toward the grassy island of trees that separated the avenue from the boulevard.
A young woman had her canteen truck parked there, but she seemed more intent on soaking up the sun in her red halter top than
selling anything.

“The business is better right there in front,” Leal said, holding up his cup.

“Yeah, I know, babe,” she said, smiling at him. “But what ya gonna do? Carlos got here first.” She cocked a thumb at the parking
garage behind her and said, “I’ll get the next wave when he runs out.”

Leal nodded approvingly, fishing for the keys to his Chevy Monte Carlo. The car had been red once, but it had clearly seen
better days. As he got in he glanced around to see the young woman still checking him out. Then she tilted her head and grinned.

“I know,” she called out. “Your other car’s a Mercedes, right?”

Stung by her remark, Leal snorted as he got in and slammed the door.

Screw her, he thought. Like she’s the queen of Sheba working a vending truck in front of the county jail, for Christ’s sake.
Then he reflected that the Chevy did look like a wreck. It hadn’t seemed an issue when he was in MEG because of the endless
supply of pristine, confiscated cars that he always used. He seldom even drove his old Chevy. That was part of what was so
great about working undercover. The cars, the clothing allowance, the freedom of developing your own cases…But there
was also the pressure to get results, to take more chances, to make the big arrests…You got caught up in the lifestyle,
but still had to keep your lifeline attached, lest you get swept up in the maelstrom.

Is that what happened to me? he wondered. Is that why I’m here now, at the top of the department’s shit list, divorced, separated
from my kids, hating everybody, and driving a beat-up old Chevy that I should’ve traded in years ago?

He hadn’t been back since the shooting. Everything had been handled via the phone while he proceeded with his recovery. Johnny
DeWayne had been given a meritorious promotion to investigations for his role in the incident. Leal envied him momentarily,
then reflected that Johnny deserved it. Just like Leal deserved getting kicked back downstairs to uniform. Hell, he’d blown
the case, gotten shot, lost one of his partners, and smarted off to a judge in court. What did he expect? A ribbon for being
an asshole? For blowing the case? Was that why it happened? Had he failed somehow to see it coming?

Leal decided to stop doubting himself and concentrated on the driving as he cut through traffic and headed toward the Eisenhower
Expressway. Self-doubts were the quickest way to get yourself killed in this business. He knew that. And, what the hell, he
thought. Maybe it is time for a change.

Leal made good time exiting the Eisenhower at First Avenue, but caught the lights at Harrison and then again at Maybrooke.
He watched the heavy stream of cars turning into the court parking lot and remembered the old days before the stop-and-go
light had been installed and an officer had to be stationed there to direct traffic for a solid eight hours. It had been the
preeminent shit detail for those who’d stepped on the wrong toes. Pure hell. He sighed, knowing that at least he wouldn’t
have to worry about drawing something that bad for his transgression.

After the Com Ed plant, Leal turned and joined the line going into the court parking lot. He knew there wouldn’t be any room
in either the headquarters or academy lots, so he circled wide and found a space near the fringes that placed him relatively
close to the three-building complex that housed the administration, the headquarters, and the academy. Strange how he kept
returning here at different stages in his career, like a pilgrim to Mecca. His initial training when he’d first come on the
job right out of the army, his sheriff police training after he’d served his two years in the jail, and the various specialty
courses over the years: self-defense training, investigations school, MEG school…Now, he knew whatever was ahead was
waiting for him just beyond the four massive white pillars that made the front entrance look almost like some ersatz antebellum
mansion instead of what the solid black lettering across the front said it was: COOK COUNTY SHERIFF’S POLICE.

He cut over to the side of the academy wing and pulled open the door, stepping into the coolness of the air-conditioning.
To his right he saw some uniformed cadets sitting in a classroom, listening attentively. Been there, done that, Leal thought.
But still, he was suddenly affected by a certain nostalgia. The pressure of cramming all that knowledge into just twelve weeks,
the sweat of keeping up with the daily runs, the workouts in the defensive tactics class…

He heard the clanging of weights as he went by the gym and couldn’t resist poking his head in for a look. On the far side
he saw a lone figure seated at the Universal machine doing lat pull downs. He walked over and watched the lean muscular arms
bulge and strain with each repetition. Collar-length blond hair hung over the back of a dingy gray sweatshirt with the sleeves
cut off. The long hair made Leal wonder if the guy was a new MEG agent. Maybe his replacement. But when he was about four
yards away the person stood up, and Leal suddenly realized that the “guy” was actually a heavily muscled woman. Her powerful
curved legs sprung from a pair of red, French-cut gym shorts and seemed to ripple with each movement. She looked over at him
and smiled.

“Hi,” she said. “You want to do a quick set or something?”

Leal shook his head. “Nah, you made me tired just watching you.”

She smiled again and went to the shelf holding the rows of chrome-plated dumbbells. Her features were well formed, although
somewhat sharp-looking, so that her face was one of those that could be described as almost pretty. He noticed that her eyebrows
were a shade darker than her blond hair, which was plastered to the side of her head now. Seating herself on a bench, she
began to do concentration curls with a twenty-five-pound dumbbell, causing a network of veins to spread up her arm and coalesce
into a larger vessel that snaked over her biceps. Nice strong teeth flared from her tan face as her lips rolled back from
an obviously burning exertion.

Leal watched her do a few more curls, bracing her right elbow against her thigh. She switched hands, and he caught the tangy
scent of her sweat when she shook her head, sending some droplets flying. The striations of her arms seemed to gleam under
the sheen of perspiration. She completed the set. He was fascinated by her strength, yet somewhat repulsed by her massive
muscularity.

She looks like the kind of babe that could knock
you
up, he thought as he turned and walked out of the gym. Probably sweats 98 percent testosterone.

As he headed down the hallway he remembered a joke he’d heard someone tell about a female bodybuilder: She’s working out so
she can develop into the man she always wanted to marry. He wondered what they were feeding these gals nowadays that they
ended up looking like that. Put her out on the street, he thought as he passed the range, she’d kick a man’s butt, that’s
for sure.

The winding staircase leading to the upstairs offices was just down the hall, and he glanced at his watch. Ten thirty-five.
Not too bad a time for his post–grand jury appointment with Captain Sean O’Herlieghy, who would brief him on his reassignment.

It’s time to get
my
butt kicked now, Leal thought as he started up the stairs.