The Green Line (14 page)

She opened the door and heard the familiar bells clanging against the glass and frame. She pulled off the scarf, opened her coat, and looked over to the counter where he had sat, reading his book that night. That was just two weeks ago. Now the room was empty. It was quiet.

Just then, two men and a woman came out of the back room. They walked toward her and the man in charge introduced himself and asked her to sign in. Abby did so quietly and studied the potential bidders. A young white woman, maybe twenty-four, with long brown hair spilling out from beneath her wool hat, was taking notes and managing to look fashionable. The other bidder looked about forty-something. He had an accent like Ali’s.

The auctioneer toured everyone through the store space and up the stairs. It wasn’t even cleared out yet. Abby mentioned this, and the auctioneer, displaying some annoyance with the comment, read her name off the sign-in sheet with formality, and pointed to the listing sheet, which indicated that the value of the goods had been ascertained. They were going with the property, of course. Abby felt adequately chastised and followed along in the back. She watched the woman. She couldn’t imagine a woman her age was an investor of commercial real estate, particularly in this neighborhood.

They saw the living space. There were no personal items, but it was still filled with furniture. The furniture would go with the property. It was a nice, two-bedroom apartment. The kitchen had been updated and there were hardwood floors throughout. The auctioneer asked if anyone had any questions. Abby didn’t feel she should speak. She shouldn’t even be there. The middle-eastern man asked a few questions about the age of the building, the roof, and the plumbing. The bidding started at sixty thousand dollars. Both bidders were willing. Then sixty-five, then seventy. At seventy-five, the man dropped out and the woman was awarded the building. She turned over her earnest money, and was told to be downtown at Chicago Title on LaSalle the following Friday for the closing. These matters usually take thirty days, the man explained, but because there was no mortgage or lien holders and the title looked clear, they could fast-track the process.

Abby had no idea the value of real estate in this part of town, but she assumed the price was considerably under market value.

· · ·

MARCUS
sat by the window waiting for his boss. Duvane had told him they’d meet at Erik’s Deli in Oak Park for lunch on Tuesday. It was just fifty feet from the Green Line stop on Oak Park Avenue and Marcus had spotted the red awning with no problem.

The people on the street were bundled in their long coats, hats and gloves, with just enough of their faces exposed to allow them to see and breathe. The wind whipped down the street, forcing them to move at an angle. Marcus knew cold weather, but nothing like this wind. He cupped his coffee, relished the warmth, and marveled at the change in scenery of just two train stops across the Chicago border. Kids were running around a beautiful park on the corner, making snow balls and snow angels. An enormous public library, a fresh bread shop, restaurants, coffee houses, a popcorn shop, and an antique furniture boutique filled the avenue around them. It was as if he had entered another world.

He spotted Duvane coming in the door.

Duvane pulled off his hat and brushed off the snow before removing his heavy coat. “I see you found the place.” They shook hands. Duvane’s hand was as massive as Henton’s, though his size didn’t appear related to weight training. More likely, pies.

“Yes, it was easy. But why the change?”

“We can’t meet in the city anymore. I was at that diner we went to the other day and four officers came in. We can’t have that.” Duvane patted Marcus’s back and guided him up to the counter to order sandwiches. They found a table away from the door and the cold air that followed all the entrants.

“So, how’s it going these days? You got some new leads for me?”

“Well, I’m definitely getting to know the players and I’ve found a few chatty kids who love passing on the neighborhood gossip.”

“That’s promising, but remember, I don’t want gossip. I want you to eyewitness.”

Marcus nodded. “Well, I’ve got two cops on my radar right now. Michael Reilly, he’s with the eleventh district.”

“Sounds like a white guy.”

They both laughed. “Of course.”

“What do you got?”

“I don’t know yet. You know that murder and drug bust we talked about at Reggie’s? Turns out he was the first cop at the scene. I know some of the kids that were at Reggie’s when that went down. Not sure what would have tipped him off to go there. Also, he supposedly found drugs at this Quick Mart down the street where the kids in the hood say drugs were never sold. And then a week after they go after the building, the owners were found dead. He found the bodies. I don’t know. It just feels odd. But I don’t have anything real yet.”

“Okay. Have you pulled him up on the system?”

“Clean as a whistle. He’s pretty young. Eight years on the force.”

“What else?”

“I’ve been hearing stories of this other cop that comes around every now and then. Roughing up some street kids, taking drugs and money, but no arrests.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t know yet. I’ve pulled the pictures of the cops in that district and the neighboring districts. He’s not one of them. But one kid said he’d seen him with that prostitute a few times, the one that turned up dead at Reggie’s. Here, I got a shot of him.”

Duvane studied the photograph as Marcus continued.

“Yesterday, I met with the woman who walked into Reggie’s that night. She had called Reilly on Friday with information that she remembered seeing a white guy leaving as she got close. But she didn’t recognize this guy,” he said, tapping the photograph.

“It’s not much of a picture. Can’t really see his face.”

“I know. But I’ve seen him up close. I just couldn’t get a shot at the time. Whoever he is—I think he’s worth checking out. One kid told me he busted up a drug deal down the street a few weeks back, took a bag of heroin and five thousand, and let the kid go.”

Duvane slammed the table with satisfaction. “Now this is the shit I’m talking about. I want to know who he is.”

“Me too.”

“Well, we gotta get a better picture, for one.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I know you are. And obviously I’m grateful that you’ve already nailed four bad apples for me.”

“Well, that kind of just fell in my lap. I mean, they beat the living shit out of some punks without cause right in front of me.”

“Yeah.” Duvane smiled. “That’s why I like this little operation of ours. My little secret weapon.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m little, but the secret remains.”

Duvane finished his burger and re-salted his fries for the third time. “Nothing would surprise me anymore, Marcus. I mean we’ve got sixty-eight active street gangs in Chicago with over five hundred factions. Did I mention that?”

Marcus nodded. He’d been reading all he could on this city, the force, the scandals, the crime.

“We estimate gang membership at sixty-eight thousand. That’s five times the number of police officers in the department. It’s a war out there. And I get it. Some police abuse seems to be routine. I mean, once in a while, you’re gonna have to fuck someone up. But I’m telling you, brutality is a sport for some of these guys. There are some really racist motherfuckers running around in uniforms. I read reports of officers shouting ‘niggers, monkeys, hood rats’ over the PA systems of their cars.”

Marcus shook his head in disgust.

“It’s a small wonder that I was actually promoted to this post. Maybe someone up there knows it’s gonna take a black man to bring down these shits.”

Marcus raised his Diet Coke to toast.

“I’m starting to think that some of our guys may be as bad as the gangbangers. Maybe worse. I mean, what’s more dangerous than a criminal with total immunity?”

Marcus sat back, pushed his empty plate away, and listened.

“I told you about that officer convicted last year of running a drug operation? Drugs found in his locker, for Christ’s sake. Balls, I’m telling you. These fuckers think they are above the law.”

“And if it’s anything like New York, I’m sure you don’t get much internal reporting. Snitches were terrorized in New York.”

“Exactly. These cops know the system, where the holes are. It’s mayhem. I’ve got to attack this from all angles. That’s why I need you on the street. The residents are not reliable witnesses. Too many criminal records, too much fear. They’re too vulnerable. But I’m cleaning house, my friend, and you’re going to help me catch some of these motherfuckers.”

Marcus smiled.

“And once we get through the districts on the west side, I’d like to move you to the south side and do it again. If you’re willing.”

Marcus could tell it was a question, but he wasn’t ready to answer yet. It was hard to think about the future. He just wanted to get through each day. But he could see why his old boss was friends with this guy. Both good men at the core, both loved saying
motherfuckers
and, obviously, both loved food.

Duvane wiped the ketchup from the corner of his mouth, pulled an envelope from his inside pocket, and leafed through his notes as he continued. “Now here’s another one to look into. Some woman that lives in one of the projects by Cellular Field said she was attacked by four plain-clothed white officers a few weeks ago. They were apparently wearing bullet proof vests. Said they made her tell them where she lived, brought her to her apartment, put a gun to her head, and ransacked the place, looking for drugs. She filed a report with OPS, but two weeks later they were back for more.”

“What’s OPS?”

“Office of Professional Standards. It’s where residents are encouraged to report police abuse. But it’s not doing great in my book. Says right here…,” Duvane looked at the notes again, “
From 2001 to 2003, OPS received over seventy-six hundred complaints of police brutality
. And guess how many of those complaints ended in discipline against the officers?”

Marcus shrugged.

“Thirteen.”

“Shit.”

“Granted, there are some bogus claims filed, but come on. This is the problem, Marcus. This means that the officers know there’s less than a one in one thousand chance of being fired for their actions. And honestly, I think you and I may be the only ones in the Chicago Police Department who are concerned.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you got the job.”

Duvane sat back, drank his soda, and wiped his mouth. “Yeah, well, I never would have if it hadn’t been for that trial last spring. When a ten-person jury finds the City of Chicago guilty of systematically covering up criminal violence of its officers, heads are gonna roll. And you’ve seen our mayor. You knew he’d put some pressure on the force to improve—at least public perception, anyway.”

“Like maybe promoting a black commander to take over the Internal Affairs Division.”

“Cheers to that!” Duvane raised his glass. “Now this woman, she’s filed suit against the department and has named three of the officers involved. They’ve been put on leave for now. That’s three less pieces of shit I need to worry about. But the fourth one, I need a name. I want you to see what you can find out. Her claims, if true, are just the sort of shit I need to deal with most. Apparently, the cops around the projects are terrorizing the residents. Planting drugs, stealing money. Some even show up on the first and the fifteenth of the month.”

“Payday,” Marcus added.

“Exactly. I want to create a criminal case against all of them. Send a message that we don’t tolerate this shit.”

“Got it.”

FOURTEEN

TRIP
stared up at the city map, a blown-up version of the west side that stretched three feet across the brick wall behind his massive glass desk. With little flag and circle pins on the various properties, he could easily survey his acquisitions and targets. He’d already sold ten properties to other developers who were doing as Trip was, sort of. Quick profits had been parlayed into more capital for further buys. He now had seven properties around both United Center and Cellular Field, at least ten more under investigation, and he was finally operating on his own profits. Things were going well. He just needed to get Reggie’s and the Madison property and he’d have the necessary diversity. A little commercial, a little mixed-use, a little residential, all with great potential in emerging neighborhoods.

“And who says you need money to start a business?” Trip said to himself with a satisfied smile as he looked around his loft—with its mod/chic interior, as his mother had called it.

The front door flew open. “Morning!” Lisa said, with that sultry voice that had been part of the reason he’d hired her. He looked over at the twenty-four-year-old by the door as she shook off the snow and removed her coat and hat, revealing her super-snug cashmere V-neck—a Christmas gift from Trip—and a suede mini skirt, which would provide optimal viewing once she sat at her desk. She shook her hair and let it fall down her back, just as Trip had requested. “All men love long hair,” he had advised in the interview. “Don’t hide it.” She had seemed flattered at the time and had always worn it down. After trading her Ugg boots for three inch heels, she headed to the kitchen and offered, “Coffee?”