“Sheets of plastic. Rolls of the stuff. And rope. Lots of rope. I open the driver’s door. There’s plenty of blood. Under both seats, I find custom-made carriers. In one, he’s got a bulldog shotgun. In the other, he’s got a machete strapped up there. Over both visors, two more leather fittings. One for the gun he had. The other for the knife.”
“Not the guy’s first dance?”
“No sir,” John said. “So I take him downtown and throw him in the slam. It’s past midnight, I figure I can sort him out tomorrow.”
“And?”
“I come in the next day. He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“The chief then. You didn’t know him. Dave Belmont.”
“Heard the name,” I said.
“Nice guy, career cop. Dead now. Didn’t ever want any beefs. Just keep your mouth shut and put your time in. That kind of guy. Anyway, he takes me into the office. Says forget about it. Says the guy is gone and it’s over. Never happened. Then he gives me this.”
From his pocket John Gibbons took out a piece of green velvet. Clipped inside was a silver Police Medal. The highest award a Chicago cop can get. Score one and your career is made.
“Those are hard to come by, John.”
“Part of the deal. I get the medal, a pay raise, and promotion. In return…”
“You forget about it.”
“That’s right. So I did.”
“And nine years later you want to do what?”
“Well, I really don’t want to do anything. But then I got this.”
From his other pocket John Gibbons pulled a letter.
“And what is that?”
“It’s a letter.”
“I can see that.”
“From the girl. The girl from that night.”
“From nine years ago?”
“Yeah.”
“She didn’t die, I take it.”
“We need to help her, Michael.”
“We…”
“I poked around a bit. “Gibbons shrugged. “Didn’t really get anywhere.”
As a detective, my old partner was a good piece of muscle. Someone to break down doors, even if he had no idea what might be on the other side.
“You’re the best I ever worked with,” Gibbons continued. “You know it. I know it. Everyone on the force knew it. If you can help out, I’d be grateful.”
The Irishman threw an envelope across the table. I opened it up and enjoyed the warm feeling money can sometimes give a person. Then I looked up and across the desk.
“Tell me about the girl,” I said.
Gibbons began to talk. I picked up the letter and, reluctantly, began to read.
CHAPTER 2
The phone rang at three-thirty the next morning. I didn’t want the phone to be ringing at three-thirty. But there it was.
I reached for the receiver and knocked the whole thing onto the floor. Then I got up to turn on the light and hit my toe on the steel footing of the nightstand. I cursed appropriately and picked up the receiver. The voice at the other end was breathy, but one I didn’t recognize.
“Mr. Kelly?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Is this Mr. Kelly?”
I answered who else would it be, and wondered about the face attached to the voice.
“Mr. Kelly, this is Lisa Bange calling from Channel 6 Action News.”
Three questions buzzed through the early morning fog I call my brain: What kind of woman has a last name of Bange? Why was Channel 6 Action News calling me at three-thirty in the morning? And what kind of woman has a last name of Bange?
“Hi, Lisa Bange,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“We are calling to get a comment-”
Lisa stopped and I heard some voices argue at the other end of the line.
“Mr. Kelly?”
“Still here,” I said.
A bated Bange breath.
“Sorry,” she said.
“So, Lisa. Here we are. Just you, me, and three-thirty in the morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Kelly. I’m calling to see if you have any comment on the shooting death of a Mr. John Gibbons.”
I keep a copy of the Iliad in the original Greek on the dresser next to my bed. Beside it is Richard Lattimore’s translation. The only translation worth owning as far as I can see. Behind these volumes sits a nine-millimeter Beretta in a holster. Lattimore might not appreciate the subtlety; Odysseus certainly would. I checked the clip on the Beretta, then the safety. Lisa kept talking.
“He was shot twice. In the stomach, I think. Down by Navy Pier. But not in the water. Mr. Kelly?”
“Yes, Lisa.”
“Well, your business card was found on his person. And so we just thought…”
“Where you located, Lisa?”
She seemed surprised. Like everyone in the city of Chicago knew where Channel 6 Action News was.
“Three hundred North McClurg Court.”
“Do you have footage of the crime scene?” I said.
“B-roll? Sure.”
“I’ll give you a statement, and you let me look at what you have. Deal?”
Lisa was in over her head. But I knew the voices were there. After a moment she came back on the line.
“Deal.”
“See you, Lisa.”
I hung up the phone and got dressed.
CHAPTER 3
The first thing I noticed about Channel 6 was the slant. Not an editorial slant. Channel 6 was built on a landfill and in the process of sliding into Lake Michigan. The smart guys among us would deem both landfill and the notion of sliding into an abyss appropriate analogies for Chicago’s local news. Not being a smart guy, I was there for Lisa Bange.
Not that I didn’t care about John Gibbons. I did. But he was dead, and nothing I could do would change that. On the other hand, I was out of my bed at four o’clock in the morning, walking down a sideways plastic hallway, on
