and looked over at me, scared. He mouthed some words but nothing came out. I had my gun out now and drew down.
“Drop the gun, Mary Beth. This is over.”
“Not yet, sir. Not just yet.”
Davis crouched against the riser, covered the side of his head, and tried to make himself smaller. At a range of five feet, it wasn’t working.
“Diane’s in custody, Mary Beth. Whatever you get, she gets. If nothing else, do your sister a favor and drop the gun.”
“Already killed five, Kelly. How much better is it going to get for Diane?”
“I don’t know. But you pull the trigger here and it’s a death case.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Mary Beth lowered her weapon an inch or so and looked over. As she was looking at me, she fired once into Davis’ chest.
“Oops,” she said.
Bennett Davis crumpled to the ground. I moved forward. Davis was still alive, wheezing blood through his mouth. I reached for Mary Beth’s gun. She fired again just as I got to her. The second shot did its job.
Mary Beth collapsed at a right angle to Davis. The round took off most of the back of her head. Her face, however, was still perfect. Lips full, mouth parted, and just a hint of a smile. Just like Frankie Pentangeli in The Godfather Part II, Mary Beth had done what she thought was the right thing. Too bad there was no family left to look after.
I closed my former client’s eyes just as a hand clawed at my ankle. It was Davis. From the sound of things he had been shot in a lung and was drowning in his own blood. Not a pleasant way to go. His hand gripped my calf, and he raised his head to make eye contact. In his case, a final sort of eye contact. I thought of a Saturday morning and Nicole, under the Chicago El tracks. I removed his hand and walked out from under the pavilion. I wasn’t sure exactly what Bennett Davis deserved, but this was probably as good as it was going to get.
I found my way over to the concession stand, stepped inside, and ordered a red-hot drug through the garden. The Packer fans stood nearby, eating a double order of cheese fries. Each.
“So is Favre all done?” I said.
They smiled and started in. I listened and nodded. In the distance I could hear sirens. That would be Rodriguez, followed probably by Masters. They’d get here soon enough.
CHAPTER 58
It was the day before Thanksgiving. The city was quiet. The holiday season beckoned.
I picked up Rodriguez downtown. We headed west on Madison. It had been more than a week since we last spoke. He had a lot to take care of. I had even more to avoid.
“Getting any better?” I said.
The media storm was finally settling. Dateline and 60 Minutes had taken their shots, done their profiles. As had The New York Times, Newsweek, CNN, and the BBC.
Most of the coverage centered on Grime, Pollard, and Bennett Davis. Some of it focused on two sisters from Kansas and a third they needed to avenge. Time magazine ran a piece on the hidden costs of sexual assault. I actually read that one.
None of the coverage mentioned me. For that, I had Rodriguez and Masters to thank.
“Only two media requests this morning,” Rodriguez said. “This afternoon I’m on live with Australia. They love Grime Down Under. By the way, your buddy Masters says to go fuck yourself.”
“Tell him I said hello back.”
“Yeah. Eventually we’re going to have to get a statement from you. Probably take a couple of days.”
“After the holidays?”
“Sure. By the way, she asked to see you.”
Diane Lindsay had been in custody for nine days and tried to kill herself three times. The first was in a holding area after she discovered her sister had shot herself. Used a shard of Plexiglas to open up one of her wrists. Lost two pints of blood and took twenty-three stitches. The two times after that were in the hospital. Pills.
My brother had taught me all I needed to know. About prisons. About suicide. About how appealing death could sometimes seem.
“Think I’ll take a pass,” I said.
Rodriguez shifted in the seat beside me, pulled his gun off his belt, and laid it on the floor next to his feet.
“Probably a good idea. They got her pretty doped up. Pull in and let’s get coffee.”
We stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts and loaded up. Back in the car, I continued west, back to my childhood. Rodriguez sipped at his coffee and did a little reminiscing of his own.
“Let me ask you something, Kelly.”
“Go for it.”
“What put you onto the sisters? I mean, why did you ever think of taking it back to Kansas?”
I shrugged. Like any cold case, the answer was in the evidence box. You just had to know where to look.
“All those people in the street file,” I said. “All dead. All, save Belmont, shot with a nine. Just didn’t seem right. Then I remembered that first morning Mary Beth showed up at my house. With a nine. Another coincidence.”
“That makes two.”
“Yes, indeed. I talked to a detective out of Phoenix. Guy named Reynolds. He ran down a hotel receipt for me. From 2002.”
“The year the ER nurse was shot?”
“A Ms. Remington, no first name, paid cash for her room, two miles and one day removed from the Gleason murder. That’s when I knew I had to go to Kansas.”
“How about Diane?”
“Didn’t see that coming,” I said. “Not even a bit.”
We let it sit for a minute. Listened to my tires rumble over Chicago asphalt.
“Funniest thing about the whole case,” I said. “Diane gave me the street file. Gave me the lead that hung her and her sister.”
“Stupid,” Rodriguez said.
I nodded and thought maybe not. Maybe it was the sort of ending she needed.
We drove west on Grand, took a right on Central, drove a bit farther, and parked. Most of the neighborhood was gone, replaced by strip malls and weeds. The rail yards, however, were still there. As were the train tracks beyond.
“This where you grew up?” Rodriguez said.
“About a mile east of here. This is the spot, though.”
We walked around to the back of the car and popped the trunk.
“By the way,” Rodriguez said, “your boy Grime is a little nervous these days.”
“How so?”
“Seems the protection money that kept him alive has dried up.”
“It came from Bennett?”
“Probably. The boys at Menard make it sixty-forty Grime never sees the needle. Side bets are coming in on how he gets it. I got ten down on a shank to the stomach.”
Rodriguez smiled, the one you earn from all the nights of closing eyelids and zipping up body bags. From calling parents and listening to the pain.
“Anyway, that piece of shit is done,” Rodriguez said. He pulled a shovel out of the trunk and handed it to
